Bury Me Standing
by Morleigh
Summary: It’s been several years since Christine left the opera forever years with Raoul by her side and her life apparently complete. But when events beyond her control thrust her into a new world, she must find the strength to once again live, love, and forgive.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**:

Blood is black at night. Warm. Living. It makes her hands look so fragile as it coats her skin. It's a wonder anyone should think she killed with these pale hands.

She sinks to her knees by a body and wonders how it all came to this. She wonders if fate has a sick sense of humor, giving her everything, then taking it away with so much violence. But isn't destruction the story of her life? And if it was not by bullet, had she not destroyed many before with her weaknesses?

There is no hope for her, the police will not be kind. She might as well be dead too.

Hope… Such an odd word. She wonders when was the last time it warmed her.

Then she wonders no more, because Christine Daaé remembers.

Her wedding day. She heard the whispers that it was the most beautiful wedding of the season and others that it was the most beautiful they had ever seen. She remembers that young girl. The young singer with the voice of an angel, clad in a beautiful dress of silk and lace, floating down the aisle to join her friend, her lover, and soon her new husband Raoul, the new Comte de Chagny.

There were other whispers too, of another man, another scandal that had threatened the happiness of the young lovers, but no one cared to remember as Raoul slipped the ring onto her finger and named her as his own. Their future was light with possibilities of love and happiness. They could move on, they could finally forget. They could live. They could love.

But fate was never kind. And now she knelt in a pool of blood, trying to remember what hope felt like. Because she knows there would be none left for her when they come to kill her too.

* * *

_A/N The title for this story comes from the book by Isabel Fonseca on modern gypsy life. The respective characters, Christine, Raoul, the Phantom, as well as certain aspects of the story were inspired from the original novel by Gaston Leroux, the musical by Andrew Lloyd Webber, and the novel by Susan Kay. I also claim some inspiration from Diana Gabaldon's fabulous "Outlander" series and strongly urge anyone with free time on their hands to pick up a copy._

_While heavily researched, this is by no means completely historically accurate. I can't get everything correct but I promise I have not rewritten French history… I just messed with it a bit. ;)_

_Due to mature situations, including violence, language, and adult situations, I'm going to rate this M._

_Huge thanks goes out to my beta for humoring me when I told her, "So I've got this idea." Poor dear didn't realize what she was getting into._

_Reviews, criticism, or simple hello's keep me on track, so please leave them._


	2. An Evening's Amusement

**Chapter #1**

**An Evening's Amusement**

_**Winter 1887**_

"Christine, let me introduce you to my new brother-in-law, Gilles Robillard."

I curtsied as Raoul introduced me to his sister's new husband. By now, such formalities of a Comtess had become second nature to me and I had done it without a thought.

"Charmed, monsieur," I said. Normally I would swoon with novelties of enchantment at how lucky my sister-in-law was to have such a husband, but I had not had enough wine to make forced flattery easy for me... yet.

"No, Comtess, it is I who is charmed."

To my surprise, my newest relation took my hand and kissed it. No one touched me- no one kissed the hand of the infamous Christine Daaé. The people in Raoul's world never forgot where I came from and they never let me forget how they felt about it. From the moment my marriage had become final, I became societies' black lamb. Any shows of respect were rare; one such of this magnitude left me breathless.

Raoul looked nearly as shocked as I. His association with me had not ruined him, but he had felt the effects. This celebration was meant as an engagement party for Céleste Robillard née de Chagny. Her wedding had taken place last June with the crème of Paris turning out to celebrate the new couple. The bride's only living brother and his wife were not invited.

My husband cleared his throat and Gilles dropped my hand. "Gilles, why don't you tell my wife about the wedding? I heard it was a grand night."

"Ah, yes. So sorry you could not make it, old boy. I hope your health has improved since then, Comtess?"

An eyebrow was raised at me and I nodded my head in response. I did not know whether to be grateful or outraged. At least Céleste had saved us the embarrassment of outright dismissal; at least she made an excuse as to why we were not present. Still, it was yet another reminder that no matter how long Raoul and I were married- and it was five years this December- I would never be good enough. Prior to Philippe's death and my memorable experience at the opera, the Chagny family had been very close and my arrival had driven a stake between them all.

Sometimes I wonder if I would not have hurt so many if I had stayed below the Opéra...

I turned my attention back to the present and realized I had been asked a question. If I could come up with something that was both general and dismissive, I might be able to escape to the terrace. It was far too cold now for anyone to venture outside and I was desperate to escape the night's general splendor.

I took a breath and ventured, "I'm afraid I do not go to Paris much anymore, monsieur. I do not care for the city."

Success. No one caught my bluff, except maybe Raoul.

Not long after our marriage, we began to realize that if we were to find any happiness together, we could not stay in Paris. Our refuge had become Avignon. Making a life in a place stripped of its chimeral power after the fall of the French Bishops seemed appropriate. We lived a few miles outside of the city in a lovely country estate near the Rhône River. On clear days I could see the Holy Palace of Popes and it pleased me to hear the bells in the tower. Raoul enjoyed the fishing and hunting while I spent my days buried in a book or expanding my riding skills. I was getting quite good. Our new home saved us the embarrassment of exclusion we had felt in Paris, but it could still be horribly lonely.

"Ah, well it is not for everyone," Gilles continued. "I myself find it rather stuffy. Every time I return, the streets are littered with more starving urchins. I blame this all on that blasted Universal Exposition they're planning for '89. France should never have to prove its excellence again with hackneyed entertainment for tourists. Céleste and I intend to get as far away from it as possible. We'll be staying in the Brest estate for a time. Is that fine with you, Raoul?"

I tried to keep my face impassive. Raoul had a gentleman's gift for hiding all his emotions, but he was having a difficult time now. Raoul's beloved old aunt, Chantelle de Moerogis de La Martyniere, had outlived her sister (Raoul's mother), her husband, and all her children until she had no one left but distant relations. Because of his resemblance to one of her own sons, Chantelle had been very fond of Raoul. She became a surrogate mother to him and he spent many seasons with her by the sea. If it had not been for continuous visits to Brittany, Raoul and I would have never met when my scarf was lost to the waves near Perros. When she died, all her processions, and the home, went to Raoul.

We had intended to stay there ourselves for the season. The change of scenery would be a great place for us to reconnect after a monotonous, but pleasant life here in Avignon.

No one lived there permanently now. By right of possession from the old lady's will, Raoul's sisters were obligated to ask permission to use it. Going behind his back like this was not only a challenge to Raoul's authority, it was an insult.

"Yes, perfectly fine... Christine, why don't you visit the ladies? I hear the Marquise has a new bracelet to show off."

Normally, I would have been upset at being dismissed like this. But if his sisters could not respect his position as head of the family, I would for the moment. With another polite curtsy, I left them and made my way towards the terrace.

As I expected, cold air kept most of the guests inside. I knew I should be inside mingling and playing the part of the hostess. I had been a fantastic actress in my day, but the thought of more boring tales on fashion and the latest scandal turned my stomach. I owed it Raoul to sit through the Marquise's rambles on African gold quality, but I had not the strength yet.

This engagement party was meant as a sign of goodwill. Raoul, my dear, sweet husband, wanted desperately to mend things with his family. I agreed to open our home to the people that had shunned me as a new bride as a last attempt to salvage our respectability. But my lifeline may have come too late and I found myself a leper in my own home.

Life could always be worse, I mused. The family estate might have been transferred to a distant relative and we could be living on the streets. But life could be better too, at least it could for Raoul if not for me.

The grandeur of the estate, our home, and our guests was lost to me as I looked up towards the sky. The stars were far more welcomed companions than the Marquise and her sniveling friends. I found a deserted bench on the terrace and lost myself to a world beyond my reach, glowing faintly with the light of a thousand diamonds.

"Little Lotte, let her mind wander..." I smiled at the sound of my husband's voice and my depressing thought drifted away. "Little Lotte thought: am I fonder of dolls, or of goblins, or shoes?"

He sat next to me on the bench and I lay my head on his shoulder.

"Those picnics in the attic," I said, playing along.

"Or of chocolates?" I felt something solid on my leg and I looked down. Raoul had placed a piece of our chef's excellent chocolate cake on my lap and my mouth watered at the sight. "You're brooding tonight, Christine. One might think you're unhappy."

I turned to face him and my heart gave that familiar lurch at the sight. Our short years together as husband and wife had aged him, but he gained the confidence of a man in his prime. Those soft, blue eyes still held the familiar boyish glint, but he was more relaxed, and for the most part, content with himself and his life. I wondered how I had changed since our reunion years ago. I certainly no longer felt the ingénue I had once been.

"I'm not unhappy," I assured him. And I wasn't. I was perfectly satisfied. I had a home, comfort, and a loyal husband that adored me. Many women would gladly kill for a fraction of what I had. So why did I feel something was missing?

"No, but you are not happy either. Is it something I have done, Christine? Is it..." he lowered his voice, "... because of the baby?"

I turned away and let my disappointment wash over me. Five years we had hoped and prayed for a baby to bless us. But every month brought no new joy and I was beginning to wonder if I had found another way to let Raoul down.

"Not now. Not tonight. I'm sad for you, Raoul. You should have been invited to your sister's wedding."

We heard through the gossip vine that a friend of the family had given Céleste away.

"Yes... no... maybe. You would have been miserable if we went, Christine and I would not want that either."

Still, it felt so callous, so _cruel_ to do to one's flesh and blood. I only had my father most of my life, but I knew in family after love came loyalty. For his sister to break that because of her brother's private choices was the most horrible thing she could do to him…

...and then it hit me…

The hostile stares, the silence, the looks of absolute hatred from Céleste I caught when she thought I was not looking….

He had been invited- _I_ had not. And my loyal husband had chosen to stay by my side than abandon me as a society-climbing whore.

I felt his arms come around my shoulder and I welcomed the embrace. He kissed my brow then rested his chin on the top of my head. I found little comfort in either.

"It's your family, Raoul. It seems I'm dragging you farther from them everyday."

He pulled back and held me at a distance.

"You are my family, Christine," he said it in a tone that dared anyone to defy him. "No matter what, you are what I hold dearest in the world."

And there was nothing to do but let him kiss me and ignore the treacherous voice in my heart that whispered I did not feel as strongly as he did.


	3. The Memory Remains

**Chapter #2**

**The Memory Remains**

The Marquise's bracelet, made of the finest gold and diamonds, was absolutely hideous. I had seen finer work on mechanical monkeys, but I fawned over it like it was the crowned jewels.

"Lovely, simply lovely!" I exclaimed. "And such a wonderful color for you."

I really wanted to say the woman would have looked best in a room without light, but only a fool would risk becoming her enemy. Babette Folliet, Marquise _extraordinaire_, a woman of substantial wealth and title, was recently married to one of the richest men in Europe. Her husband, Gaston Folliet, was a legendary self-made man. He had forgone family clerical tradition to make his way in trade and succeeded beautifully. He was part of the new breed of French aristocracy, notable by their accomplishments and not their names. The older families despised them, but they had little choice in this brave, new France. By marrying Babette and securing a noble title, Monsieur Folliet was just as good, if not better than those with genealogy back to the earliest days of France. Money was the underlying factor of power and with power came respect.

In many ways, Babette reminded me of Carlotta. Both had the same overbearing attitude and taste for gaudy attire. Both were my harshest critics and had no qualms about doing so within my hearing range. The difference was that Carlotta's condemnation was purely out of jealousy and eventually stopped. Babette's were based on my life before I was a Comtess, which time would not change. She was also Gilles Robillard's second cousin

The woman barely noticed my compliments as she beamed over her latest prize. She turned her wrist to and fro, admiring the different ways she could make the light fall on the gems while her minions turned green with envy. Most wives lost the interests of their husbands within eight months of the marriage; Babette had been married less than four. Her time was coming, but for now, her husband was still showering her with gifts. When she noticed my presence, she seemed to have to search her memory for what to call me.

"My darling… Christine, you are far too kind. But you! You look delightful! There are few hostesses who are modest enough to under dress for the sake of their guests. You have the heart of an angel- and blue suits you so well."

I had gotten used to most of the casual insults thrown my way, but this one really stung. It was my favorite dress: midnight blue and off the shoulders. Raoul said I was stunning in it and I was pleased to please him, while looking the part of a Comtess. Apparently, I looked more like a pauper.

I suddenly felt a pang of longing for my dear friend Meg, now the Baroness de Castelot-Barbezac. She too had married above her station to a wonderful, loving man. But unlike mine, her husband detested social gathering and relocated his new family to Spain immediately after the wedding. Meg had confided to me that he had not appeared publicly since the death of his mother over ten years ago. It had only been grudgingly that he had attended his and Meg's own wedding. I tried to be as supportive to her as she had been to me during my own marriage to Raoul, but now she was in Spain, and I was alone in a world of unsympathetic aristocracy.

"Your new brother-in-law is simply delightful as well," another woman, I think she was an admiral's wife, spoke. " Céleste better keep an eye on him lest he's snatched away."

I nodded to hide my ignorance. What I knew about Gilles Robillard came from Raoul and it was very little.

"But, I have heard he can be rather wild." The admiral's wife was speaking in low tones to her companion. It was clear, however, from her loud whispers and clear enunciation that her intention was not concealment, and I saw the Marquise bristle at the degradation of her relation. "There was that scandal of his father several years ago squandering away all their money and Monsieur Robillard had to become involved with some of the vilest business simply to keep them out of poverty. And Lady Simonette said that when he vacationed in Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer last spring during that business with the locals, he was a frequent visitor at the…" she lowered her voice, "…brothels!"

Husbandry philandering was not rare, but it was rarely mentioned in public. The woman received the response she hoped for as astonished gasps floated throughout our small circle of women.

"Then again, we all have skeletons in our closets, don't we?" the Marquise's eyes deliberately shifted to me.

I was saved from whatever would have come next when the object of the women's admiration made his way towards our party. I saw several of my companions flutter their lashes over the lace trimmings of their fans and I could not fault their reactions. Gilles Robillard was an incredibly good looking man, with dark brown hair and laughing, honey-colored eyes. He carried himself with supreme self-assurance and anyone close to him felt as if they were in proximity to a king. He was also a good five years younger then Céleste de Chagny, who had come into a large sum after the death of her first husband. The de Changy and Robillard union was nothing more than a contract, though one half of the pair seemed more pleased with the union than the other. The families were ecstatic to make such an excellent match, and Gilles was welcomed with open arms into the de Chagny circle; _I_ had yet to have a friendly hand extended my way.

He greeted the party politely then held his hand out to me. "My good sister, would you do me the honor of the next dance?"

I had not danced with anyone besides Raoul in years and my husband was not the most graceful partner. I had been watching the dancing couples in longing while my feet tapped a light tattoo in time with the orchestra. Any excuse to get away from these women was welcome.

"I would be delighted, monsieur."

Gilles led me to the middle of the other dancing couples and pulled me close. From across the room, Raoul smiled at me and I took it as a sign that he approved. I tried to put a respectable distance between us but his grip was solid as he swept me away with the music.

It felt good and Gilles was a wonderful dancer. I lost myself in the joy of movement, and any nervousness I had felt towards him vanished. Every step was carefully calculated, and I felt as light as a feather in his arms. His grace and intense stare reminded me of someone, but I was far too dazed to try to remember.

When the orchestra stopped, Gilles led me off the floor towards the refreshments.

"You used to dance at the Opéra, didn't you?" he said suddenly, handing me a glass of punch.

My stomach lurched. Conversations in this direction never had a pleasant outcome.

"Yes," I said cautiously, carefully drinking the full contents of my glass of punch. The sight of a woman drinking a healthy amount of her drink must have been comical to him. When he laughed, I nearly choked on my drink and sent a good portion of the beverage dripping down the font of my dress. He produced a handkerchief from his breast pocket and handed it to me.

"You need not be shy, Comtess. I think your past is charming."

"Do you?" It was a hopeless endeavor, but I continued to dab the stain on my dress to keep from meeting his eyes.

"Yes." He waved his hand in the general direction of Marquise, Lady Simonette, and the other ladies watching me like hawks for the slightest slip up. "All these women ever learn to do is to embroider and gossip. It's refreshing to meet women who know something of the real world."

I gave my empty glass to a passing servant and said as firmly as I could, "I had no choice."

He smiled. "Of course and I admire that in a woman. I was blessed to marry Céleste and acquire a family so... worldly. I do hope in time you and I will be friends, Christine."

There was something in his tone that put me on the defensive. The way he spoke my name, the words sliding from his mouth as smoothly as a lover's caress, reminded me he was nearly a stranger, made close only by a few symbolic verses in a priest's book. And the way he was staring at me… I had not been subjected to it in years, still, I immediately recognized it: It was the same leer that was often to be seen on the faces of the patrons of the Garnier as they observed the pretty and scantily-clad girls of the ballet corps. Slightly hungry, almost animalistic, it also held false promises of riches. In truth, it offered nothing but inevitable ruination. Given time and experience, many of the dancers had gotten used to it; I never had.

Suddenly, a large hand was resting on my lower back, nestled along the curve of my spine. It began to stroke possessively up and down the length of my back, stopping a few times to rub slow circles though the silk of my dress.

I was not sure that something was happening, yet I knew I had to put a stop to this right away. But I was not good at confrontations, I never had been. Even if I was strong enough to say something, I couldn't risk embarrassing Raoul in front of so many people. I tried to think of something that might put a firm distance between us but, whether from the punch or my own cowardice, my mind had gone blank. I searched the crowd, hoping to see a friendly face among the dancing couples, one that might offer an escape, but there was no one there for me to find.

"I am a married woman, monsieur." Both our backs were to the wall. No one could see what he did and it made him bold.

He took my hand and kissed it. "And now I am a married man. I would like nothing more then to see you again and talk over our wedded bliss, Christine."

He was leaning into me and I felt as if my grand ballroom were no larger than a closet. I put up my hand, when I heard my name being called over the roar of the crowd: Raoul was coming towards us. Gilles's hand left my back and I felt as if I could breathe again. When Raoul finally reached us, he told me he had come to fetch me to bid several of our guest's farewell. I looped my arm in his own and I did not look back at my brother-in-law as my husband led me away.

As we made our way towards our departing guests, a short man with a very thin moustache stepped in our path. The man startled us both, but it was Raoul who spoke first.

"Inspector Clavell. I had thought you already gone. May I introduce my wife, Comtess Christine de Chagny."

"Charmed, Madame." The man took my hand and raised it to his lips, but did not kiss. He was a very short fellow, only up to my nose, but he carried himself with the ruthless intensity of a man long in the service of protection.

"Inspector Clavell is a long acquaintance of mine, Christine" Raoul explained. I knew who he was, at least by reputation. He was an ambitious man in the Parisian law enforcement, and the rumored paramour of Lady Simonette while her husband was negotiating the trade deficit in India. But I felt as if I knew him personally. I could not imagine a time when I had mixed company with the police, but the name and the man stirred a memory in me from long ago.

"I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Inspector. I do hope you enjoy your time in Avignon."

"Delightful enough, Madame la Comtess, I am leaving as soon as I am able."

"Oh? So soon?"

"I fear the vagrants of Paris never sleep, Madame. The days are full of thieves and the night of whores. We've been tracking an assassin for some time, but we fear he's gotten away." His words were spoken with complete sincerity and the combination of his air and appearance amounted to nothing less than comedy; I wondered if he ordered his meals in the same serious way. It was only through the grace of God and my husband's fierce grip on my arm that I was able to keep from laughing.

I swallowed my smile and asked, "So Paris is your territory?"

A hint of a smile played beneath the man's dark moustache. "Indeed Madame, I believe you know something of Paris' wretched."

Raoul cleared his throat. "The inspector headed the efforts to capture… the Opera Ghost, Christine."

"How unfortunate that we did not catch him. It certainly was not from lack of trying. We still have a new recruit look into the case once in a while, but I fear the bast- pardon me, the '_offender' _is long since gone."

"Yes," I said grimly. "Unfortunate."

I felt Raoul's hand grip my elbow steady me. The haze of over seven intervening years began to dissipate, and my mind formed a clear image of a small man with a thin moustache, grilling me on all I knew of the Phantom. It was a memory I had hoped to forget.

"It's funny, but all we were ever able to recover was a mask… and a wedding veil."

"Excuse me, inspector, I feel a bit flushed." I was not lying. I felt as if the ground had fallen away beneath my feet. My pulse was racing and Raoul guided me into the hallway and towards a secluded chair. Hundreds of years of de Chagny lineage hung on the canvases all around me on the walls, all judging through their blank, painted eyes, hurling accusations at me like arrows.

"Why did you do that?" I placed a balled fist on my chest and willed my heartbeat to a normal pace. Raoul hovered near me, but made no move to give me ease.

"I tried avoiding him, Christine, but he insisted on meeting you. I thought it would be better if I introduced you instead of him catching you alone. You saw how he came out of nowhere!"

"You could have warned me! Raoul, I nearly fainted in front of everyone. Why didn't you tell me?"

After my encounter with Gilles, my emotions were running high, seeming to press against the barrier of my skin. I was ashamed that I had been unable to put Gilles in his place, and now ashamed that the most painful episode in my life had been brought back so casually, by a callous guest.

Raoul kneeled beside me and took my hand. "I'm sorry. I never thought it would be that difficult. I thought you were over him-"

"I am!" I insisted. I was. I really was. I never gave my former tutor a willing thought since the day of my wedding. But there were times when the stillness of the night sang to me, and I could not help but remember….

"That does not mean I want to hear about it from some random inspector. Why would you do such a thing, Raoul?"

Raoul was fidgeting with the edge of his glove, avoiding my eyes. After all the time we'd been together, could he honestly believe that I longed for another? Could I?

"Raoul," I said, an edge in my voice. "What are you thinking?"

He flinched at that and I knew I had him. Nothing could be more of a shock to me than what had already happened. Raoul stood up, jamming his fists tightly into the depths of his pockets.

"I am thinking…. wondering… if you ever still think of him? Does he ever cross your mind, now and then?"

Before I could even open my mouth to respond, Julian, our head butler, appeared to announce several members of our party would be leaving shortly. I felt relief wash over me as I realized that I would not have to answer Raoul: He may be a loving husband, but he had been first and foremost a nobleman. He would choose his duties as host before marital conflict any day. He sighed, running a hand through his hair, and I could see him pushing the problem to the back of his mind.

As I smiled and waved to our departing guest, I kept thinking about Raoul's question. If I answered, we would be venturing into dangerous ground. Never did we speak of it unless in general terms as "the incident." Our marriage was so fragile already and I refused to reintroduce the thing that had nearly destroyed us once before for the sake of honesty. The past was dead. Raoul was my future and I had no interest in toying with the possibilities of another life.

Later, as we readied for bed, I heard Raoul's voice carrying out from his dressing room.

"Did you hear anything interesting from the ladies, Christine?" He appeared in a doorway, clad only in his night clothes. He looked nearly as tired as I felt, but there was a hint of playfulness in his air that gave me pause.

I considered telling him about Gilles, and the rumors circulating about the man's past, but decided against it. Nothing had actually happened and what those ladies were spouting was merely gossip.

"That the awful bracelet cost the Marquis a small fortune."

Raoul laughed and joined me in the bedroom. I was sitting at the vanity, smoothing my hair for the night when he took the brush from my hands to smooth the strands of my tangled mess. He always loved to do it and I was happy to let him. It was one of the few bright stars in our marriage where we were free to enjoy each other without scrutiny.

I nearly groaned in pleasure and almost missed what he said next. "I saw you dancing with Gilles. Did you enjoy yourself?" the question was innocent, but it brought back my earlier reservations. I halted his progress with a difficult curl and lead him towards the bed. The covers had already been turned down; all it needed was two people to sleep in it.

"As much as I could. Raoul, do you know anything about him?"

"Not much. His family was very wealthy, but their father lost a good deal of it in the wars. He has been working to rebuild it for years, and marrying my sister definitely puts him back on track. I daresay Céleste will be much happier then she was with that old dolt Fabian. She likes him at least. Why do you ask?"

"Nothing, just something one of the women said to me."

Raoul let out a laugh. I was startled at the outburst and he took the opportunity to pull me on top of him. He proceeded to kiss and pinch me like the little boy I had known in Brittany, and I giggled as I tried to squirm out of his grasp.

"You know better then to listen to those old crones. To hear them tell it, then you are nothing but a shameless harlot who seduced me to my ruin."

I wiggled and drew myself up the length of his body until his blue eyes darkened. It had been some time.

"And did I succeed?" I asked, fumbling with his nightshirt.

He moved me onto my back and raised my hands above my head.

"Completely."


	4. A Letter of Importance

**Chapter #3**

**A Letter of Importance**

_**Late Spring, 1888**_

The months passed us by in relative peace. We stopped going to parties and stayed at home to enjoy the quiet of our country estate. I read some of the popular mysteries and Raoul spent his time hunting with his hounds and finding new ways to expand his impressive fortune.

We were entering that stage in our marriage of comfortable companionship. Although the passion we had felt at the beginning was long since gone, I was content and I believed Raoul was too. No baby came into our lives and it disappointed Raoul as much as me. He came from a home where love was in abundance and I had known the constant love of a devoted father. I knew he wanted a family of his own to make up for his loss of the other.

But I never understood the depths of his grief until one day when I came home early from my dressmaker. Julian took my things and informed me Raoul had been in his study most of the afternoon. That was not a rare occurrence; what _was _odd was Julian imploring me to see him immediately.

"Why?" I asked, over-looking his breach of formality.

"A letter came today addressed to him, Comtess. Whatever it contained, he was not happy to receive it.

I thanked Julian, asked him to bring in some tea, and set off towards the study. For reasons both nostalgic and superstitious, very little of the décor of the study had changed since Raoul assumed his brother's responsibilities. Important contracts and negotiations had taken place within those walls that had ensured that the next several generations of the Chagny name would ever have to work. Raoul wasn't willing to risk jinxing the family for the sake of his own taste. Aside from a portrait of one of Philippe's lovers (which had been replaced with a larger likeness of me) on the desk, everything had remained virtually unmoved, as if Philippe was expected back at any moment from his numerous escapades. Maybe Raoul thought it gave him some semblance of luck, or maybe he felt that if anything was altered, everything Philippe had ever worked for would change, too.

I found my husband sat at the desk in the massive room, staring intently at a sheet of paper.

"Raoul?" I entered and shut the door behind me.

Raoul started, dropping the paper. I crossed the room and retrieved it before he had a chance to. I picked it up and held it to him. Instead of taking it, he waved his hand in a way that meant I should read it.

"What is it?" I asked, but he was not looking at me.

Raoul was staring at the ring on his left hand. The gold signet ring, plain by comparison of what a de Chagny man could afford, was a simple circle with two lines intersecting to make a cross. It had been retrieved from Philippe's bloated corpse after being found in the lake of the opera house, and it had been the only recognizable part of him. Raoul wore it faithfully on his left hand and I could usually gauge his moods by the way he turned the ring around and around his finger as if he could screw it in place.

I did not want to read the letter. Whatever was in it could not be welcome if I it had this effect on Raoul. But I picked it up anyway and read as far as the second paragraph.

I placed the letter back on the desk and asked, "How long?"

Raoul finally looked at me. What I saw was enough to break my heart. He gave me a weak smile and said, "Since the beginning. She says he first hit her on their wedding night for questioning him in front of their guests."

I remembered my wedding night. There had been pain, but not out of violence. Raoul held me afterwards and whispered in my ear how he loved me. I had never seen my husband angry, and only once had I seen him pushed to near violence since I had known him. Any unpleasantness, physical or emotional, always came to him at a high cost of his steady character. I could only imagine how it felt to hear his brother-in-law had taken to beating his sister regularly.

"Why didn't she tell me?"

He was not asking me, but I found my feet and went to him. I had nothing to comfort him with except myself, and I took him in my arms as I might a child and rocked him gently in my embrace. I had known since I met Gilles that something was not right, but I never dreamed he would raise a hand to Céleste. I felt a wave of tenderness for my husband. It seemed we were a rare pair.

"What will you do?" I asked.

"What _can_ I do, Christine? She's not my responsibility and even if she was, I doubt she would want my help." Raoul pulled away from me and ran a hand through his hair.

"Then what does she want? Money? A place to stay?"

Those we could easily provide. Divorce was almost unthinkable. The family name would be ruined beyond repair, Gilles would win everything, and Céleste's chances of making another match would be eliminated. The only thing to do would be to hope Gilles drank himself to death or someone shot him in a card game.

Raoul picked up the letter and looked at his sister's elegant, though erratically scrawled words. "She wants us to visit for an indefinite period or at least until the baby is born. She says he is less... aggressive when there's company."

"That's all?"

"That's all it says."

What it did not say was whether Iwas welcome. There was no great affection between Céleste Robillard and I, and the last thing I wanted was to cause her further grief by showing up unwelcome on their –_our_, I corrected myself- doorstep. Then again, I knew how isolating married life could be and female companionship of any kind might be appreciated.

Raoul was staring at the letter. The force of his gaze almost made me believe he could change the contents of it with the intensity of his blue eyes. I suddenly had to touch him again and I placed a hand on his check. He was such a good and loving man. Any kind of abuse, especially against his own sister, was completely foreign to him. I understood the anger and the confusion he battled inside as clearly as if he had asked a question.

_Am I like him_? _Do I have it in me to be like that?_

_Never_, I wanted to say, but my throat closed down on the words.

He leaned back in his chair and his light hair fell across his brow in a way that made him look very young. I moved to brush it away when he spoke again, "This is my fault."

"Don't say that!"

"Isn't it, though? I knew this marriage was going to take place and I stayed away because I was too proud. I never bothered to find out about him. Now my sister is married to a monster and I let it happen. I've failed, Christine; I've failed my family."

I remembered the night of the party with sudden clarity and recalled what he had said to me out on the terrace. I brushed the hair away and let my fingers linger on his cheek.

"You haven't failed me. You never have."

The memory of that night brought about another, more painful memory. An underground lake, Raoul on the end of a rope, and a man I cared for more then I could ever admit lose his mind because I lacked the courage to see beyond a mask.

_Christine, forgive me...I did it all for you_...

Raoul's hand found mine and he gently squeezed. "I love you, Christine. You know that, right?"

I answered him in the only way I could; I took him into my arms again and rested his head on my chest. I felt him sigh and relax against my body and I placed a kiss on the top of his golden hair. I had the strongest urge to sing a lullaby to him, but I squashed it just as quickly. I would never sing again, not even for Raoul.

"It will be alright," I soothed. "We'll pack and leave this weekend."

I felt him stiffen. He pulled back in my arms and although he raised his head, his eyes nervously moved from floor to ceiling avoiding my own.

"Well, you see... the thing is, Christine-"

We were interrupted when Julian came through the door of the study with tray of tea.

Julian, ever the well-trained butler, did not acknowledge our private embrace. He placed the tea on the end of the desk then announced: "The trunks have been loaded, my lord. The carriage waits to take you to the station."

He left as swiftly as he came and Raoul and I were once again alone.

It was always difficult to be angry with someone like Raoul, especially when he only had good intentions, but I gave it a good try. I did not like leaving the sanctuary of our home and I especially did not like it when such trips came about without my knowledge.

Raoul held out his hand to me, but I did not take it. I scrambled up to my feet out of our consoling embrace and continued to ignore him as I tried to smooth out my skirts. When I could not do it anymore, I looked up to see him giving me a weak smile.

"Look at it this way," he offered. "We have a long ride to decide what to do."

* * *

_A/N: Pretty much sums up my views on Raoul. _

_Hope you enjoyed, and don't forget to leave a review._


	5. After Love Comes Loyalty

**Chapter #4**

**After Love Comes Loyalty**

Riding a train across country offered few distractions; I could either converse with my husband or stare out my window at the passing scenery. For the first leg of the trip, I gave Raoul my complete attention. But as we arrived in Paris for Raoul to meet briefly with his lawyers before we continued on to Brittany, I had long since resigned myself to the fact that no constructive conversation would be accepted while he was still reeling from his sister's recent revelations. I had my own ideas as to what I thought Céleste should do, and all of them ended with the assistance of a lawyer. I kept these to myself and listened as Raoul detailed plans that involved heavy armory or a very large object dropping on Gilles Robillard's abusive head. I tried to make him see that it would do neither Céleste nor myself any good should he be killed in his impulsive attempts at revenge. Eventually, he acquiesced; I had won this small victory, but I knew that it would be my only triumph. We dropped the subject completely and lost ourselves to the beauty of the French countryside passing our window.

Brittany's rugged landscape was gorgeous entering early-summer and it gave a nice distraction from the awkwardness surrounding Raoul and I right now. Breton villages and ancient forests rushed by my window, and the very air seemed to tremble with magic, and secrets from the past. The people who called the area home were as foreign to the rest of France as the far-off Orient, with customs, a culture, and even a language of their own. On several occasions during my childhood, my father and I had depended upon the hospitality of such families, and I had always found their archaic, quaint ways much more to my liking then those of the modern city.

In my new pampered life, those memories seemed to belong to someone else; but now seeing their living embodiments, I felt something stirring in my chest. If I listened hard enough, if I could still my heart of its noisy murmurs, I imaged those secrets might be mine again too. I thought on when I first met Raoul and the times by the fire when my father told us stories, but I thought very little on the plight of Céleste de Chagny Robillard.

We arrived in Brest an hour after nightfall and set out immediately for Chantelle's home. Raoul had not written to Céleste to tell her we were coming, and now, our journey's end in sight, he still neglected to send word. It was a rude hour by that time, and I suspected whatever plan Raoul had settled on in his mind, surprise was a large part of it.

I had only vague memories of Chantelle de Moerogis de La Martyniere's home when my father gave Raoul violin lessons. I remembered the craggy old face of the dowager and that odd mix of lavender and mothballs that seems secular to ancient nobility, but I could recall nothing of the home. I could have cursed the betrayal of my memory as our carriage entered the borders of the great lady's estate.

If the Château de Chagny was elegant, Chantelle's home was royal. I knew I was far away from the original structure my mind compared the home to, but I could not help thinking that I was looking at a bastard version of the Basilica of the Sacré Cœur. There were fewer domes, and it was a deep gray, not white, but the structure was so magnificent, it nearly took my breath away. If anything, my years as a Comtess made me more intimidated by its grandeur and I felt something akin to bewilderment that Raoul had chosen to move us to our home inAvignon and not here. Our home was modeled after modern tastes; this was timeless.

If the staff were surprised to see us, they recovered beautifully. We were whisked away to private rooms in the east wing while the butler attended to our luggage and my maid drew a warm bath for me. The butler, Pierre, assured us Madame Robillard was in bed right now and would be informed of our presence in the morning.

We did not see her in the morning, or the next. At mid-day, three days after our arrival, the butler informed us that Madame Robillard was ready to see us in the west wing for tea.

During our days of waiting, I had explored the grounds following the images of my memory. I found the giant fountain Raoul and I had played near as children, with its three carved cherubs emptying their pitchers of water, grinning devilishly as if up to some divine mischief. The maze I never went in by myself for fear of never coming out was also nearby, and the grand stables that stood near the forest's edge as a silent testament of Chantelle's love of horse breeding.

But I had not had time yet to explore the innards of this magnificent home and I clutched my husband's arm as he led us towards the parlor. I had thus far been ignoring any misgivings I might have felt about interfering in Céleste's life, but I could not push them away now when one of the waiting staff opened the door and stepped aside to let us through.

Céleste was blessed with the same golden coloring as her brother. Perched on a velvet couch with the sun streaming through the windows and in the glows of early pregnancy, she was breathtaking. I had not known what to expect, but it was not the ethereal vision my eyes insisted was real. Raoul must have been moved by the sight as well because we both stood dumbstruck as Céleste stood to greet us. She embraced her brother and gave me a courteous nod. She bid us to sit and immediately launched into general conversations on the weather and her latest additions to Chantelle's home.

Céleste was an expert hostess, but even her talents had limits. I knew how she felt about me and was not surprised when her attentions towards me were every bit as frosty as they had always been. She bombarded her brother on every minute detail since we had last seen her at the party last autumn and ignored me. I was actually glad of her inattention; it gave me a chance to investigate. I looked for any signs of the treatment so colorfully detailed in her letter, and saw none. She looked almost better than she had in late winter.

I was beginning to wonder if it had been a horrible hoax when, as my sister-in-law reached for a cake, her lace-lined sleeve fell away to reveal several ugly, finger-shaped bruises on the delicate skin of her forearm. I knew Raoul had seen it too when he went as still as a hunting cat.

A slight break in Céleste's movements was the only indication that she knew we were onto her. But she simply picked up her biscuit and ate it with a fierceness that dared either of us to say anything.

In the end, it was be Raoul who spoke first.

"Céleste, where is Gilles?"

She had not been expecting that, but she recovered herself and folded her arms in her lap. "He's in Paris on business right now. I'm afraid it keeps him indefinitely. I think this trip will prove more fruitful than the last."

"Indefinitely," Raoul repeated. And then, dropping all trace of friendly indifference, he said, "Céleste, I have spoken to a lawyer. You may be able to keep the child provided Monsieur Robillard receives most of your fortune. Christine and I have more than enough to see you live comfortably for the rest of your life."

I stared at Raoul. He had not told me he had spoken to a lawyer. I had naturally assumed he would prefer to solve the problem as quickly, and as scandal free as possible.

Céleste's initial shock quickly turned into contempt. "Put that thought out of your head this instant, Raoul de Chagny. I will not divorce my husband over some silly argument."

Raoul leaned forward until his elbows rested on his knees. His eyes softened to a watery blue that I recognized as the gentle face he made when trying to befriend a skittish child.

"Christine and I quarrel all the time, Céleste. But she never comes out of it with bruises."

"Not everyone is as blessed in their union as you, brother."

I was surprised to hear my name. This trip had been about many things, but none of them had to do with me. Although I was closer to Raoul than Céleste in the manner of our relationship, the majority of Raoul's life had included his sister, not me. I did not feel jealous, or regretful, I had my own secrets, but my presence here was unnecessary. Raoul using our relationship as an example, I felt, was venturing into unnecessary territory. The problems in our marriage were our own, and I did not see a need to bring anyone else into them unless I welcomed them.

"Céleste, you wrote the letter to Raoul. You told him what was happening. What do you want?" Céleste shot me a look that said exactly what she felt about me. She never left me in doubt of her hatred for me, but I still felt sorry for her. She was only eight years older than I, but looked as if she had lived a lifetime under a heavy burden.

"He will change," she insisted. "Once his deals come through, he will be too busy to mind me or the baby. He loves me, I just provoke him once in while."

From my place on the couch, I could see Raoul's heart break. A strong bond, especially one he had shared with his sister, was hard to compromise. But even that bond could not make him understand what draws a woman back to a man long after she should have left.

_People do not change, not unless they want to._ Was that memory mine? I hardly knew, but the voice rang in my brain with a rattling certainty. No one knew that better than I, and now Céleste was learning too.

Raoul moved from his seat to join her on the couch. The picture of serenity Céleste had previously presented had long since vanished with the arrival of her grief, but next to her brother she seemed even less of a vision, more than a tragedy, but finally human. Raoul took her folded hands and kissed each one.

"Céleste, what do you want?" He freed one hand and raised her chin to meet his eyes. She could not hide from him, but I could see how she struggled to free her words.

"I want," her voice caught, and she almost gave up, but continued, "I want… I _need_ you to stay with me, Raoul. You have been gone for so long. Stay for a while. Everything will sort itself out in time."

Her hand grasped Raoul's wrist that was holding her chin. She was too proud to cry, too desolate to voice what she wanted. If companionship was what she wanted, I knew Raoul would give it to her. I would too, if she would only accept me.

"Raoul, isn't your birthday in a few weeks?" Céleste asked suddenly. I had to search my memory to see if she was right, but I could not decide if the date I remembered was his birthday, or my father's.

"Yes. I think that it is about four weeks away." He stated it as if it were an unimportant subject and tried to push the conversation back into more mundane topics.

"Four weeks? That does not give us enough time."

"What are you playing at, my dear sister?" Raoul eyed his sister skeptically and she returned his expression with a warm smile, retreating back into the costume of an unaffected hostess

"A party, of course. If my little brother is to turn twenty-nine years old, it should be celebrated."

She looked to me for assurance and I merely shrugged. I felt almost guilty for disagreeing. Birthdays between us had never been a big issue, so much so that I had not remembered his.

"Céleste, that is ridiculous. Men turn twenty-nine all the time and no one cares."

"Well _I_ care. I have been meaning to get to know the other families around here and this will be the perfect opportunity to invite them all. We'll invite Bianca, and Christine can help. Besides, when was the last time you celebrated your birthday with your real family?"

Raoul and I shared a glance. The idea of meeting new people, evading new questions on my life at the opera, was not welcome. I had barely survived it before. But if his sister was willing to undertake such a venture, who was I to stop it?

"I think it's a fine idea, Céleste. If you need any help, please ask."

And then a small, insignificant doubt entered my mind, barely worth noticing, but stayed with me until the tea had long since cooled.

I waited until Raoul had shut our bedroom door that night before asking, "Do you think it will help?"

Raoul headed towards his dressing room, his coat was already unbuttoned and he worked on the intricacy of his collar. We had been put us in the room Chantelle often gave to Raoul when he used to visit his aunt. It was much smaller than the room we shared back at home in Avignon, but it was comfortable and it seemed to suit the Raoul I had known as a boy. Small bits of marine and navy life were scattered about the room and the windows were placed full west, right in the view of the ocean.

"What? The party? Couldn't hurt."

I lay on the bed and stared at the odd patterns on the ceiling. I imagined I could see a seagull, or perhaps a whale in the paint secretly smiling at me.

"Raoul, do you ever miss the navy?" When we had discovered his brother had died, there was no question that he had to give up his naval career to assume his responsibilities as head of the family. I knew he had loved the sea and regretted the loss, but I never asked him how keenly he had felt it.

"Sometimes I miss the marauding and wenching. But I find I can get along well enough without it." Raoul was standing near the edge of the bed, grinning at me. I took the closest pillow I could find and hurled it at him. "The wenches I knew on the docks were never as difficult as you, my love."

"Aren't you the lucky one," I muttered, rolling onto my stomach. This was obviously a topic he did not want to discuss and I would oblige him. But there was one thing that I could not let go. "Don't you think this is just a distraction for your sister?"

I understood her embarrassment and need for secrecy better than anyone. But I also knew ignoring the wound would only let it fester.

"Probably," Raoul agreed. He had forgone the dressing room to stop and talk with me. His collar was proving to be particularly difficult and I stood on my knees at the edge of the bed to help him. "What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing, really. But I don't think it will help if Gilles decides to show up." Success. I tossed the necktie behind me and began work on the buttons of his shirt.

Raoul stopped my progress and patted me on my cheek.

"_If_ that bastard does show up, then this whole party thing was your idea, understand?"

"Of course. He can throw his sister-in-law out of the house without feeling any guilt. Then he will be free to do what he has been doing since his wedding night!"

The anger came upon me so suddenly that I hardly knew it was mine. His hand dropped to his side and all the playfulness he had been trying to bring into the conversation was gone. I had pushed it to this, but I could not say that I regretted doing so.

"I'm serious, Christine."

"So am I. You staying here indefinitely is not going to make him stop. If anything, it might just make him more careful."

He turned from me and walked across the room toward the doors that opened onto the balcony. Someone had left them open, and a soft breeze drifted in, crisp with the distant sea air. Raoul did not actually go outside, but leaned against one of the doors, as if the trials of the day had left him too weary to stand. I stayed in my position at the edge of the bed, ready for battle but dreading it too.

He turned to face me. The rising moonlight illuminated him from behind and it was not flattering, even for such a handsome man as Raoul. "Christine, be reasonable. We are not even sure what is really happening."

"Please tell me you do not mean what I think you mean."

"My sister is pregnant."

"So?"

Raoul was twirling the signet ring on his left hand, every rotation seeming to bring him closer to some outlandish conclusion. "Maybe… Maybe it is not as bad as she made it out to be. This could all be the result of her delicate condition."

"You can't be serious. _You_ saw her arm too!"

Raoul flinched at that. "I am not saying she would deliberately lie. I'm saying that maybe some of it was… worked up."

I had heard of hysterics, nervous conditions, and other ridiculous aliments that plagued many women in wealthy society. I also knew it was all an excuse for bored women to act out against their controlling husbands. I never suffered from it myself, but there were times (like now) when I was sorely tempted to throw a tantrum.

"So if I had a baby, you think I would make up fanciful stories on your treatment of me? Tell everyone you beat me, just for the attention?!" My voice was rising. I could feel my checks burning. I had never been so angry with my husband in my entire life and I felt as if I were talking to a stranger, not the man I had married.

"Well, we're not going to have one now, are we? So _we_ don't have to worry about it!"

Without another word, he stormed out the open doors and disappeared to the outside world.

Through the haze of hurt and confusion, I realized vaguely that it had started to rain. I lay back on the pillows and continued my contemplation of the ceiling paint. My vision swam as tears entered my eyes and I decided it was definitely a whale.

Raoul returned to me long after I blew out the candles. I felt him climb under the covers and lay still as his breathing evened out in his sleep. I wished he would touch me, I wished I had the courage to touch him. I feel asleep trying to remember what his hands felt like loving me in the dark.

* * *

_A/N: Hope you enjoyed and don't forget to leave a review!_


	6. Moonlight Encounters

**Chapter #5**

**Moonlight Encounters**

When I married Raoul, I thought I knew him as deeply as I knew myself. Our shared history and the intimacy the connection I was certain we had, convinced me we were as two halves of the same soul. Within the first weeks after the priest declared us spiritually joined, I found out there were many things I did not know, and many I never would about my husband.. There was a part of him that would always be closed off and surprisingly, I discovered I had my own secrets as well. But one thing I did know about my husband with complete certainty was that Raoul hated all conflict. If he could avoid it, he would. If he could not, he would pretend it never happened.

The morning after that argument, Raoul opened the curtains on the balcony, kissing me on the forehead when he saw I was awake. He escorted me to breakfast and talked to me and his sister on his plans to hunt that afternoon. Before he left, he escorted through the lush gardens adorning Chantelle's home and reminisced on the games we had played there as children. When we parted, he left me with a gentle kiss and "I love you," whispered in my ear.

But unlike Raoul, I did not possess the talent to speak sweet nonsense and go one with my life as if nothing had happened. I did not have the stomach for it. Perhaps I could blain youthful naiveté, or a fervent blind hope, but for some time, I had been ignoring telltale cracks in the foundation of our young marriage. If we did not fix them soon, it could very well lead to disaster. But all the cavalier intentions I had could not makeup for a lifetime of inexperience when it came to dealing or fixing the relationships I had with men. Growing up, it had been just me and my father, in my early adulthood, I had been entangled in what could only be called a tragedy with two men I cared for deeply, perhaps even loved. The later came upon me so heavily and quickly, I only had time to react and never to learn. Now, with my life in isolation, I did not even have a friend to seek for advice. Nor did I feel comfortable discussing it openly with Raoul; that kind of frankness had never existed in our marriage.

I wanted to give him a child more than anything. We had been through so much together, the least I could do was bear him an heir to stand as unending proof of our affection and commitment. But my courses followed steadily month by month and my shame grew deeper along with it. I hated my body for betraying me in this way and I nearly hated Raoul for using it against me. That he could go on, pretending nothing had happened, seemed the height of cruelty to me.

I never slept well, but the turmoil in Brest had made rest nearly impossible for me. One night, I nearly wore myself out tossing and turning under the covers. Raoul turned over several times and grumbled, indicating that I was disturbing him. I decided it would be impossible to achieve any sleep tonight, and pointless to keep Raoul from his rest, so I eased out of bed and dressed for a long walk on the grounds. Raoul muttered something when my weight left the bed, but he turned over and went back to sleep.

The moon was veiled by the low-hanging clouds. The summer air was warm, but I shivered in the breeze. I wrapped my cloak closer around my body and breathed in deeply the night air. My quiet footsteps, and the call of the odd night bird were the only sounds tonight and I felt wonderfully alone. I held my breath for fear of destroying something fragile and turned my eyes to the distant sky.

I always suspected that the allure of the stars lay in the unknown. A thousand shards of glimmering lights, winking beguilingly at their audience as if they know the power in their ambiguity. Millions of stories reign down from a place I could never be, but would sell my soul to know.

The musty scent of hay filled my nostrils, and I could hear the deep rumble of beasts in their slumber. I followed the trail to the magnificent stables on the far east side of the estate grounds. Chantelle loved her horses enough to give them grander living quarters than she did most of her tenants. Thirty horses lived in the stalls, with three on the way. Every one was bred under knowledgeable eyes and the result was some of the most magnificent horses in the country, perhaps even Europe.

I entered the stables on silent feet and was greeted by several snorts and neighs from the stalls. I had become a regular visitor since my arrival and most of the horses came to expect me. Most paid me little attention, but the others stuck their heads out of their stalls to see if I had brought treats.

I did not disappoint them. Before leaving the house, I had snuck into the kitchen and raided both the apple barrel and the sugar jar. I made my way down the row, holding them out to their probing lips. Most turned around and ignored me when they finished, except for one at the end of the row, who waited for me as I made my way towards him.

His name was Averroës. He was the grandson of one of the old master's fiercest hunting stallions and was a surprisingly gentle soul for his bloodline.

"Hello, lovely," I said. The horse stuck out its nose to greet me. "Beautiful weather we're having."

Averroës flicked his head and neighed. His coat was pure white, with traces of silver on his long neck and back. Long-legged and sure-bodied, Averroës was a magnificent animal and he knew it.

We had become friends when I had found him standing in the middle of one of the garden trails as if it were the most natural thing in the world. The grooms, once I informed them of the horse's escape, had no idea how he had gotten out of his stall. One of them called him a "damnable ghost," and I knew I had made an instant friend.

Tonight, though he welcomed my visit, Averroës rejected any offer of food and swung his head from side to side agitatedly.

"Don't want company, is that it? Well, you are just going to have to put up with me for a while." The horse snorted. "Beast."

I let myself into the stall. The grooms usually left me brushes and combs for my visits. Averroës was content to ignore me and chew away at his hay while I ran the brush over his silver-streaked back. I was perfectly happy to lose myself in the repetition of movement.

We continued on like this until Averroës's ears suddenly perked. I did not notice anything at first, and was about to tease the horse for his suspiciousness, when I caught the sound of quiet footsteps making their way closer.

"Hello? Who's there?" a voice called and I breathed a sigh of relief. It was only one of the stable boys, and it sounded like one I knew. I went to the door and stuck my head out to greet him.

"Dear lord, Madame la Comtess! What are you doing out here this late?" The boy could not have been more than thirteen years old, but he was already growing an impressive amount of facial hair. He was one of the more dedicated workers on the estate and I liked him immensely.

"Hello, Gerard. Sorry to frighten you. Averroës and I were just having a conversation."

Gerard scratched his head and looked everywhere around the stall, except at me. "You shouldn't be here at this hour, Madame. No disrespect; you can come see the horses anytime you want during the day. But we've had some theft lately and I don't want to see you stolen, too."

"Theft? What do you mean?"

"Gypsies, Madame. They're camping near the city and all manners of things are just going missing lately. Normally, they just take studs like Averroës to their mares then bring 'em back. I can tell ya, boys like Averroës here don't mind a bit, but it makes it a bit difficult for us to get 'em to perform when we want 'em to. Oh, I beg your pardon, Madame."

I smiled at him. "That's perfectly alright. But the thefts?"

"That's the funny thing, Madame. They're just taking 'em now, and not just the stallions, either. The Lestonnac estate lost three full-blooded mares last week and we've been missing Allegra for a few days now. Don't make any sense, but what can you expect from Gypsies?"

What indeed. Gerard was more angry then scared, but he was right. If one of _them_ decided to visit the stables on this night and found me instead, who knew what would happen?

"Thank you for your concern, Gerard, but I won't be here much longer. I'll just finish with Averroës then see myself back to the house."

"As you wish, Madame. I'm going to bring in old Lear now, call me if you need anything. Goodnight."

"Thank you, Gerard. Goodnight."

I had dropped the brush during my conversation with Gerard, so I bent to retrieve it. I had just returned to my brushing when I heard steps again, this time hoof-beats, coming towards me.

_That was fast_, I thought, smoothing the soft hairs on Averroës's back. I would have ignored it, if something else had not caught my ear: A man's humming accompanied the rhythmic _clunk_ of the horse's feet. I could not call it a tune because it was merely a series of random sounds made by a gruff voice. It was growing louder as it came towards me and though I did not hide, I certainly did not make my presence known either. I wedged myself between the wall and the horse's body, and hoped Averroës would not suddenly get an urge to squash me.

The stall across from me had been opened. I assumed that was old Lear's quarters, and it was left open for when the horse came in. But a very different horse appeared, with a slumped figure sitting on top. Without any help from the rider, the horse turned and went inside the stall. The rider, once untangled from the reins, jumped out of the saddle and into a perfect stream of moonlight.

We were surprised to see one another, but Gilles Robillard probably more so. He had the look of a man that had been enjoying himself all night long and would continue to do so given the opportunity. His eyes sparkled in the moonlight but the rims were bloodshot. I could smell the whiskey on his breath, though he held himself perfectly straight. His left hand had gone to the pistol nestled at his belt, but left it slowly as he recognized me.

"Madame," he gave me a gallant bow and I returned it with a curtsy.

"Monsieur."

Even had the ever-talkative Marquise been present would have been at as much of a loss as I for something to say. Céleste had told us Gilles had gone to Paris, yet he carried nothing with him save his clothes and the smell of alcohol. Bits of small talk darted in and out of my brain too fast for me to settle on a single one, so I stated the obvious.

"I could not sleep."

His brows narrowed.

"I see. So, you decided to come out to Brest to solve the situation?"

His hand was no longer near his gun, but his body was in the same state of readiness as if I were going to attack.

"We arrived a fortnight ago."

He advanced towards me and Averroës stomped his hoof when Gilles entered his stall.

"For a friendly visit, no doubt. Come out from behind there, Comtess. I don't bite."

I would have preferred to stay in the stall, separated from the man by the sturdy bulk of Averroës, but I could not think of any excuse for doing so that wouldn't sound like the ranting of a madwoman. I took his hand to help me as I climbed over the buckets and hay-bales. Averroës neighed one last time as Gilles started to close the stall door.

"A friend of yours?" Gilles shut the door and waved his hands towards Averroës. He still held my other hand in his grasp.

"Yes, he's a beautiful horse."

"Indeed. You still have not told me why you are here, Comtess. If it is just for a friendly visit, then I'm delighted you are here."

"My husband was anxious to see his sister." I did not know how much to reveal, but I also knew Gilles was no fool. He would see through any of my lies. He laughed and tucking my arm in the crook of his, he led me towards the entrance of the stables.

"As am I, _sister_. Would you allow me to escort you back to the house?"

We passed Gerard on the way out, leading Lear. He bowed as we walked by and Gilles ignored him.

"I hope you do not mind that we take the long way back, Comtess. There are many things on these grounds that are only at their best in the moonlight."

"I have been here before, Monsieur."

"Call me Gilles. I believe my wife mentioned you and your father had come here to give the young Vicomte lessons. You will have to indulge me this once, Comtess, and plead ignorance. I doubt I will have the pleasure of your exclusive company again for the rest of your visit."

He said very little to me directly as he described the grandeur and history of the estate as we made our way towards the house. His sentences were clipped as he described the significance of the sun god statue adjoining the entrance to the hedge-maze and the African lilacs newly planted near the fountain. Eventually, all conversation ceased and I found myself stealing glances at him in a way I had not dared during our first meeting several months ago.

He truly was a good-looking man. His dark brown hair curled elegantly at his ears. I had originally thought his eyes were a light chestnut color, but I could see now that I was wrong. They were almost saffron with flecks of brown lining the edges. I should have been ashamed at the way I studied him as if he were on display for my amusement, but I could not take my eyes off him as I let myself admire him over and over again.

His sudden bark of laughter made me jump.

"Was this how you won Raoul, Comtess? I did not quite understand before, but now I could see almost any patron making you an offer when you look at them that way."

Shame washed over me, followed quickly on its heals by anger. I wanted to cut and run back to the bed I shared with my _husband_, but Gilles grabbed my arm and turned me until I had no choice but to meet his eyes.

"Didn't I once tell you I found your history charming, Christine?" He titled my chin up towards him and I saw something in his eyes that split my blood in shards of ice and heated anticipation.

"And I told you I am a married woman, monsieur."

"Certainly. The honorable Comte, here to protect the valor of his sister. Do you approve?"

I was close enough to smell the whiskey he had consumed. I tried to wriggle from his grasp, but he held me firm.

"His pursuits always have my approval."

"Do they? The Comte is fortunate to have a wife that so approves of his interests. I wonder, Christine, if he allows the same for you?"

His free hand rose to my shoulder and brushed the mass of curls away.

"Such a curse. So much given, so little gained. Tell me, do you ever miss what you have lost?"

"I think of my father everyday."

"Me too, sister. Me too. My father was a drunk, but a very smart man. Before he died and left my sisters and I nothing but a stream of debts, he looked me straight in the eye and told me he regretted nothing. Nothing! I hated him at the time, but I can appreciate what he meant now better than I could then."

He leaned forward and placed a chaste kiss on my lips. It was too quick for me to push him away, or to be outraged, yet I found myself leaning into it despite my own will. His eyes, so light they nearly glowed in the lamplight.

He pulled away from me and whispered, "No one need know but us, my beautiful Christine. No one would be hurt."

"I-" And then I was back in my body. I trembled in revulsion at what I had done… what I had _let_ him do! I shoved him away from me and slapped him as hard as I could across his face. I expected him to hit me. I waited for it. But when I opened my eyes, he was cradling the red hand-print across his face and smiling at me.

We were close enough to the house that if either of us raised our voices, someone in the house would hear. I could scream, but if they did come, what would I say? I turned to retreat towards the house, but he grabbed my forearm in a nearly paralyzing grip and I could feel every indent of his fingertips leaving their marks on my skin.

"I think, my darling Comtess, that you forget what you are capable of. Your precious Comte is strangling you. He could never give you half of what you crave, and you fear your own desires so much that you try to hide from them."

"You don't know anything about me!" His grip tightened on my arm and I was silent.

"I know more than you think I do. Any fool could see it if they looked. But I warn you, my dear Christine," another squeeze and I thought my arm would break, "do not forget what I am capable of either. It was not labor weakness that kept Céleste in her bed when you arrived."

When he released me, he did not throw me to the ground, or twist my arm until it broke. He simply let go. He took several steps backward and bowed once more.

"Good night, Comtess. I hope you find some sleep tonight."

I rubbed my arm as I watched him walk away from me. I was humiliated, frightened, and desperately tired. I wanted to crawl into bed with Raoul and pretend none of this had ever happened, but the tender spots on my arm would be purple tomorrow.

…_he loves me, he'll change…_

Would he? Somehow I doubted Céleste's most cherished wish would ever come true.

Raoul made a noise when I crawled back in bed beside him. I had envied his ability to sleep so heavily, but now I feared it. My body had betrayed me tonight with Gilles and there was no reason why my mind would not do the same in my dreams. I lay awake listening to Raoul's deep breaths and praying that I would not fall asleep tonight.

* * *

**A/N:** ___To anyone wondering where our favorite phantom is, hold out just a little while longer. I promise he's coming. We just have to deal with some other things first. ;) Gilles, while not based on anyone in particular, is a composite of classic abusive behavior. If you or anyone you know is going through that kind of hell, please get help. No one should have to live like that._

_Thank you to those that have submitted reviews; your words are more appreciated then I can express. And here, ladies and gentlemen, is the part where I'm going to shamelessly beg for more... pretty please?_

_A million thanks to RJDaae for her fantastic beta abilities._


	7. Prelude

**Chapter #6**

**Prelude**

If I gave it enough thought, I was sure I could come up with something as equally useless as croquet, but right now the game was winning over bedsores. Prior to this afternoon, I had been indifferent, now I hated it down to the stupid white hoops.

"Your aim is a little off, Comtess. You will never get it through the hoop if you hit wild."

I wanted very much to tell Gilles Robillard where he could shove _his_ ball, but I smiled, turned, and ignored him.

In an attempt to lighten our spirits, Raoul had suggested we all play games in the garden. We were waiting for Céleste to change into a lighter gown and I was taking several practice hits with the mallet before we began. I did it partially to get accustomed to the act, but mostly to take my frustrations out on an inanimate object lest I do it on something a bit more human.

"Christine, did you hear me?"

Gilles had crossed the expanse of garden so quietly, I nearly jumped when I heard him speak in my ear.

I had hoped avoidance and a religious presence at Raoul's side would quench whatever designs my brother-in-law had on me, but it only seemed to amuse him. He was around every corner, and frequently in the stables which had been my refuge. No matter where he found me- and I had no doubt _he_ sought _me_- the faintest smile would play across his face, in the same way I'd seen on cats before they kill. My surrender was not a matter of 'if' to him, it was a matter of 'when.'

"Leave me alone, Gilles," I hissed. "My husband is nearby."

Being a natural sportsman, Raoul needed little warm up to perform at his best. The head gardener had come by asking advice on how he should arrange the new lilacs along the garden path, and Raoul had gone with him. I could see him now, just barely in my sight, using his arms to frame his vision of the fountain while he explained how best to compliment the marble structure.

Gilles did not answer, but a light touch of his fingers on my arm was all he had to do to tell me he could care less where Raoul de Chagny was.

I raised the handle of my mallet and whacked my red-striped ball with all the strength I possessed. It flew across the garden and landed in the fountain, close enough to Raoul that some of the water splashed on both him and the Gardner.

"Oops," I said. "It seems I have lost my ball. Please excuse me, Monsieur."

I took off towards Raoul and ignored Gilles' laughter.

"Christine," Raoul said as I approached him; he was dabbing the wet stains from his coat with a handkerchief, "if you really do not want to play, I'm sure we can find someone else."

"Ha, funny. I'm fine," I took the handkerchief from him and began cleaning him off myself. "I just wish we could get this over with so I do not have to stand near that cad longer than is absolutely necessary."

"It is just a game, Christine. He barely even looks at you anyway."

If only he knew.

What had happened that night was as much a source of confusion as it was humiliation. _I_ had not kissed Gilles. I had never even given him reason to think I would welcome it. And after it had happened, I had slapped him for crossing that line. But none of that could justify what I had felt during the encounter.

I had lain awake that night and watched Raoul sleep, Gilles's words haunting me till morning; _you fear your own desires so much that you try to hide from them._ I wasn't hiding. I had no reason to. Raoul was with me and that was all that mattered. But Gilles had touched me, and my skin warmed instead of crawling in revulsion. I hated Gilles down to his bones for being an abusive bastard, but I hated him even more for seeing me more clearly than anyone had in years.

I finished my work and gave Raoul a quick kiss on the nose and turned to retrieve my ball from the fountain. But before I could grab it, I felt Raoul go perfectly still.

"Raoul, what on earth…?"

I turned in the direction he was looking and went as still as he as we watched the proceeding drama. Céleste had finally emerged from the house, dressed from head to toe in a light, yellow muslin. It was not a gown I would have worn, but Céleste's increasing pregnancy demanded lighter material for comfort, and higher waistlines for concealment. Céleste saw the two of us and waved. She started to head towards us, when Gilles intercepted her.

It occurred to me that, until that moment, I had never seen the two of them together. One or both of them had always been absent at meals: his excuse was always business; hers, pregnancy. It made it rather difficult to believe the despair in Céleste's letter that had brought us here. The faults I did see in Gilles were no different than I had seen in other men of his class: many of them were no more then selfish children, prone to cheat on their wives merely for sport. Gilles's difference was that his attention was focused on me.

The smile on Céleste's face vanished instantly when he grabbed her arm. I had been watching him when Céleste joined us and I saw an expression of near disgust at his wife's practical choice in clothing cross his face before he stopped her. His back was to us and he hissed something to her that made her shake her head vehemently.

"But I like this dress, Gilles, please?"

Gilles bent towards her, until their faces were only inches apart; it could almost have been mistaken for tenderness if not for what happened next. The neck of the muslin dress was cut at an angle, exposing her collar bones. It offered no protection as Gilles raised his hand to rest on the patch of pale skin. His fingers suddenly curled painfully into her flesh, and Céleste's knees started to buckle beneath her.

Suddenly, Raoul was moving towards them. I did not know if he meant to kill him and I did not know if I wanted him to. But I felt bile rise in my throat as I watched Gilles's fingers, which had glided so seductively over my skin, crush the shoulder of his own wife.

As quickly as it happened, it was over by the time Raoul reached them. Gilles smiled at him and said pleasantly, "Shall we start?"

Raoul hated confrontation. As much as I hated his methods of problem solving, I was no better. When I had climbed back into bed after my midnight encounter with Gilles near the stables, I knew that no matter how I told Raoul about what had happened, he would never acknowledge it. And I decided I would not either.

Céleste's bruises. Gilles's erratic breathing. The look of absolute terror in Céleste's beautiful eyes. They had no effect on Raoul as he held out his hand and escorted his sister near the starting hoops of the playing field. And I struggled to follow his example.

I saw him take a deep breath and say, "Very well. Gilles, you start."

I really, truly hated this game. Coupled with the tension practically humming between us all it made for a miserable afternoon. Within the first five turns, Gilles and Raoul were so far ahead of Céleste and I, we gave up.

"Maybe they'll forget we're part of the game?" Céleste's attempts at humor had been pitiful, but I smiled anyway. She needed the comfort.

She also needed to sit down. Anyone could tell she would have a difficult time with her pregnancy, she was such a finely boned woman. Even at this early stage, it was already wearing on her. I escorted her to a bench under a tree and called for one of the butlers to bring us water.

"But Gilles and Raoul are still playing!"

"And having a fine time of it, I'm sure. They won't notice us, Céleste, and you need rest more than recreation now."

A young man brought us both water. I had not realized how thirsty I was until I brought the cup to my lips. I emptied my cup and called for another. Céleste had three. It was incredibly hot today, and the confines of dress and corset were doing neither of us any good.

"Oh that's better," Céleste said, leaning back and placing a hand on her abdomen. "You might be right about those two. When Raoul was a boy, he was never happy unless he won. I remember one of the stable boys beat him in a race and Raoul kept insisting on rematches until the poor stable boy pleaded exhaustion."

I smiled at the picture her words conjured up. Raoul was such a different man than the boy he had once been, though his good heart remained the same. Céleste held up her cup and pressed it against her forehead.

"And Gilles too," she continued, "I thought he would have taken Jean Forest's head off that day his horse beat Gilles's in the races. But no one can stay mad at that man," Céleste took another sip of her water, then rolled the cup in her hand as she collected her thoughts. "My husband's emotions do tend to get the better of him. He can get so angry sometimes, but I know he never means it."

Excuses. She wore the evidence of his emotions on her collar bone, and she was still making excuses for him.

I could not let her go on thinking this. "Céleste …"

"Don't Christine. Just leave it be."

"Céleste …"

"Do you think I should use yellow or green for the decorations in the ballroom?"

Her pleading blue eyes had probably once danced with laughter, or at least before her second marriage. I could see so much of her brother in her. I loved Raoul, and I supposed I loved Céleste for being a part of him. I could no more bear to hurt her than I could him. I could play along with her self-imposed blindness if I needed to.

"Yellow," I said. "It's Raoul's favorite color."

* * *

Averroës went missing. The stable boy who had been given the task of staying up with the horses swore he had been up the entire night, and not seen a single soul. But when the new day came, and all that was left of the hunter was a worn iron shoe, the boy was dismissed.

Everyone knew it was not his fault. Everyone knew who was truly responsible for the crime, but no one dared name the real culprit for fear of them revenging themselves upon us. It was said that the Gypsies were near the city and many valuable properties and children went missing.

"He was a good horse, Comtess. Don't you worry about him. Wherever he is, he'll take care of himself. And Rhiannon will be having his foal in a few weeks." Gerard had been the one to break the news to me. He stopped me just outside the stables, as I had been on my way for my daily ride with the only friend I felt I had anymore.

It was only a horse, property owned by the Chagny family, occasionally producing profits. He was a trinket, an ornament, no more important than the china, though the china was used more often. He should have meant nothing to me.

But Gerard had held me while I cried. And I kept crying.

* * *

_**A/N:** Just for the record, I really do enjoy croquet. _

_Hope you enjoyed this chapter, please don't forget to review!_


	8. Whiter Shades of Pale

**Chapter #7**

**Whiter Shades of Pale**

**Mid-Summer 1888**

When my lady-maid came to me to prepare my hair the night of Raoul's birthday party, I let her brush out the tangles until my hair gleamed, but nothing more.

"Madame, are you sure? Perhaps we could pile it up here," I felt her hands rest softly at the bridge of my skull. Her skills as a hairdresser would guarantee perfection atop my head tonight, but I had already made up my mind.

"Thank you Marie, that will be all."

Marie looked as if she wished to protest, but she bobbed a curtsey, whispered, "As you wish, Madame," then left me alone.

I could understand her apprehension: It was unseemly for my hair to be down like a virgin's on a night of such importance. I was making my debut as the Comte de Chagny's wife to Brest society andacting as second hostess to Céleste. I had no real reason to explain my choice, but I would need some small comfort to get through this evening and my hair had always been my greatest beauty, and my shield.

I lingered in front of the mirror, staring at my reflection. My dress was a deep crimson, a color I hardly ever wore, and my hair flowed down to my waist in an ocean of curls. I reached out and tapped the mirror's surface to see if the person staring back really was me.

I was no longer the fresh-faced young girl of a few years ago; Age had winnowed out the last bits of baby fat from my features, leaving the bones of my face sharp and prominent. Life indoors had settled an ashen pallor over my skin, and if I even had any freckles left, they would have been blotted out by layers of make-up. The only traces of my former self that I was able to recognize were my hair and eyes, and even then I had to look closely. Christine Daaé was nowhere to be seen: the Comtess de Chagny stood in her place.

"Christine…" my husband's soft voice broke me from my reverie and I turned to look at him. He was standing in my dressing room door with a look of adoration; I felt a blush creep over my face.

He cleared his throat and held his hand out to me. "Christine, you look beautiful this evening."

I crossed over to him and hugged him. We shared a warm, friendly embrace until he pulled back and looked at me.

"This cannot be the 'Little Lotte' I know and love."

"She was not invited. Happy Birthday, Raoul."

He shrugged. "Just another year in a very long line, Christine. Nothing changes. I would be infinitely happy if this year was less eventful than the last. Give me my hounds, my books, and you in my bed every night and I would think every day was my birthday." A slow devilish grin spread over his face and his touch became less friendly, and far more intimate. "We could have one of those right now. What do you say to granting a birthday-boy a wish and being a bit late tonight?"

We both laughed. I had no idea why he was so plucky this evening. Perhaps the birthday festivities had lightened his mood. Whatever his reason, it was catching; I felt like playing too.

"Raoul, if you are thinking what I think you are thinking, then the answer is 'no'. The guests have already arrived."

I could already hear the sounds of laughter and music, drifting up from the ballroom all the way to the privacy of our suite. We were already fashionably late. I had planned to have three hours to prepare my appearance and, in the end with last minute adjustments for the party, I had only one. If I got out of this dress to attend to Raoul's amorous repartee, the party would be over by the time we made our entrance.

"Some other time?" he said hopefully, one hand moved suggestively down my back, but stopped at my waist. "I did want to talk to you about something else."

He was staring at the gold slave necklace I had worn for the party. It had been a gift from Raoul on our first anniversary, designed by a man named Frederic Boucheron and once owned by his mother. It was a magnificent piece, with four chains interwoven at the front, and was a perfect complement for the shape of my neck. It also rested enticingly on the tops of my breasts. I had thought, at first, that this was why Raoul was looking at it, but I realized then that he merely did not want to meet my eyes.

"Go on," I encouraged.

"I was thinking… Perhaps the time has come for us to go home."

I had not expected that. Not at all.

"But what about-?" When I was with Raoul, I tried never to say Gilles's name out loud. I felt it lessened my guilt and made the drama less real to me. But it was all very real to Céleste. I could not understand what would compel Raoul to abandon his sister after all we had been through these last few months.

"Céleste would come with us," he clarified. "She has actually become fond of you, if you can believe it. We'll say she did not want to have the baby without you and that duty calls both of us home."

"Raoul… why? Not that I am not thrilled by the idea, but why go through all the trouble of moving her when we can stay here?"

At that, he stepped away from me. He looked down at the signet ring on his left hand and began to twirl it around his finger.

"I don't like the idea of that bastard being near the baby. And… that is…if you… if _we_ can't, then this might be a chance to have a child in our lives."

"Oh…," I whispered, "… I see."

Raoul gathered me into his arms again and stroked my hair. I let myself relax against him anyway, acting as if I found comfort in his gesture.

"Christine, I married you for _you_. Whether or not we have a child… I'll live, as long as you are with me," he said carefully, and searched my eyes for some kind of answer that might unburden him.

Jealousy is a terrible thing. It robs you of your reason and every tender feeling you ever felt for someone. What is worse is when you are jealous of something that is not real. Between our bodies, I cradled my hands over my stomach, where life was absent and my biggest failing dwelt instead. I could give him myself as much as I knew how to and it would not be enough. My husband loved and yearned for something that did not exist, more than he did me. At that moment, I hated that unborn life.

But I did love Raoul and whatever bad feelings there were between us, this night was for him. That child was his hope for a future- _our_ future. And if I could give him a glimmer of that realized dream, however tarnished, I would.

I gripped his lapels and pulled him towards me. I tasted the soft familiarity of his lips and conveyed my accord in the best way I knew how. More pressure, less breath, and we melted together in a perfect moment of understanding. But wholeness is fleeting, and we had to inevitably part; separate beings once again with a wavering connection.

Another year and we would work to return to the quiet life we had enjoyed before a letter arrived written in Céleste's hand. It was easy to change, harder to stay the same. I wondered, if I looked in the mirror a year from now, who would I see?

Raoul held out his arm to me. I looped my arm in his and smiled at him.

"Here's to twenty-nine years, Raoul."

"No," he said, giving me a boyish grin, "here's to simplicity."

* * *

I was surprised to find that I really, truly, enjoyed myself that night. I knew less than ten of the people in attendance, if even that many, and so I was finally free to laugh and dance without fear of reprimand. Raoul presented me to several families, most of whom had never even been to the Opéra, much less heard of its infamous scandals. For the first time in years I was able to hold my head high, finding freedom in the ignorance of these strangers.

There was a spirit of excitement that night that washed over me. Céleste's careful planning had created a dream world of wine, music, and laughter and I relished every moment of it. Raoul stayed by my side most of the night, but during the time that he was not, I made friends with several other married women. One of them was only too pleased to tell me the rumors of Eiffel's tower being built for the Universal Exposition, that it would be an abomination to the city. The unmarried maids never stayed in one place longer than a minute as they were either on the dance floor, or prowling the premises for a wealthy bachelor, and I hardly had a chance to speak to any of them

Those that I did know, and did not care to see, kindly stayed away from me, scowling into their champagne, as none seemed inclined to make friends. I felt guilty for it, but I took pleasure from seeing Babett flutter her eyes for a dance partner and come up short. Inspector Clavell was in attendance with Lady Simonette; apparently Indian negotiations had not been going well enough to send her husband home.

I felt free and alive. With my hair down, and my spirits high, I danced and drank to my heart's content. Only once did I succumb to duties as second hostess when I retired to the kitchen to check the progress of the meal and the cake intended as a surprise for Raoul.

Nothing could touch me tonight, not even the conversation I had with Raoul in our bedroom. When Raoul suddenly appeared beside me, I was merely happy to find a new dance partner.

"Christine?" he said, steering me away from the dessert table.

"Raoul, you simply _must_ try this! It's from Italy and it has coffee in it!" I pushed the plate of Tiramisu towards him, but he waved it away.

"Not now. There are a few people here who are eager to see you."

I could not imagine who he was talking about, so when he stepped aside and Madame Giry and my dear friend Meg stood amongst the crowd, the heavenly dessert fell out of my hands and was promptly forgotten.

"Meg!"

"Christine!"

I threw myself into my friend's arms. We laughed and cried until I was sure I had ruined my makeup, but I did not care. My dearest friend was here after so many years apart. Madame Giry gave me a reserved hug, but made up for it with a generous kiss on my forehead. Meg's husband, Javier, kissed my hand and complimented my dress.

"What are you doing here?" I said when I finally had a hold on myself.

Raoul, Javier, and her mother all gave each other secret smiles. But my dear Meg, a noted gossip, and my best friend, had never been able to keep a secret from me in her life.

"Raoul invited us weeks ago. Javier and I have not been in France for so long, we simply had to come to see you."

Raoul had not said a word since introducing them to me. There was so much I could not forgive, so many ways in the last few weeks we had hurt each other beyond repair. But I could see in this gesture and in his steady gaze as I glowed under the warmth of friendship, how much I meant to him. He loved me. I loved him. That was more than enough.

"Well," Raoul coughed, breaking the awkward silence. "I do not wish to delay the reunion, but Meg, you were once a dancer. Would you do me the honor?"

Meg giggled and accepted. It was good to see that Meg's bubbly disposition was still thriving. She gave me another hug and whispered that she would find me later to talk. Raoul led Meg out onto the dance floor and swept her away in an elegant waltz. Javier, Madame Giry, and I remained on the side and watched.

"How is Spain at this time of year, Madame Giry?" I asked.

"Dull as grass, Christine. Meg had me taking Spanish lessons from a tutor for a while, but I took care of that." I did not doubt it. The lessons probably ended with her tutor in tears. "And yourself, my dear?"

"I am fine. We will be here another week and then we plan to go home. How do you like the party, Javier?" Meg's husband had been surveying the crowd with a disapproving scowl on his face. If Meg had not been exaggerating her husband's years of social solitude before their marriage, then I could see he was not happy to break it among the current company. When I asked my question, though, he face broke in a charming smile.

"I would like it better if I were in Spain, Comtess. As it is, as long as I have spirits in my hand, I will survive."

I laughed out loud at that. I could not have chosen a better husband for Meg if I had picked him myself.

I had lost sight of my husband and my friend as more couples began to dance. I started to go in search of Céleste, when Madame Giry took my arm.

"Come and walk with me, child. Javier will be fine by himself for a while," she said. Javier snatched glass of champagne from a passing servant, he would be quite content for some time, and Madame and I made our way towards to edges of the party.

"You look lovely this evening, Christine," she fingered one of my loose tresses and I nearly blushed. It was amazing how my former ballet mistress could still make me feel twelve years old at the ripe old age of twenty-five. I made to thank her, but she continued talking, "We will be here but a few days more, then we will head back to Madrid."

"So soon?" I did not try to hide my disappointment; she would have read it anyway.

"Yes, Javier does not care much for France and I would be lying if I said I wished to linger."

Odd. I thought she found Spain boring. We were now at the doors that led out onto the garden. Madame Giry stopped walking and turned to look at me face to face.

"I believe I saw Inspector Clavell, or did my eyes deceive me?"

"Yes, he is a good friend of Lady Simonette."

"I have not seen him in years, not since the Opéra." She spoke casually, but I knew her better than to think her tone was a reflection of her intent. I had never met anyone who could veil their words quite as well as Madame Giry, and though I admired the ability immensely, to be on the receiving end of it was annoying. I wished she would simply come out and say what she wanted instead of leaving me to guess. "I have had word, Christine. I wondered at first if I should tell you, but I feel you have a right to know."

I never had a chance learn if she was merely making small talk or if there was something I needed to know. I suddenly heard shattering glass and laughter. Madame Giry and I turned and saw Céleste laughing and pointing, accompanied by a man unknown to me. The object of their mirth was a young serving boy who had accidentally (or perhaps the man had tripped him?) fallen, shattering several flutes of champagne.

Given the state of her marriage, I assumed Céleste had neither the will nor the opportunity to carry out an affair. I seriously questioned that when I saw her with that man.

I never did learn his name; the wealthy son of someone unimportant, whom I would never speak to. The way Céleste leaned on him and giggled when he whispered in her ear, she might have been a blushing sixteen-year-old, in the throes of her first romance. The man tickled her under her chin and fed her strawberries. He played with the lace on the front of her damask gown, tracing the pattern that led down to the secret her dark dress hid well.

I felt Madame Giry's fingers suddenly dig into my forearm. Most of the party hadn't even stopped, but several throw uncomfortable glances at the couple. Madame Giry was searching the crowd for someone, and it was not until I saw a brown-haired man stalking towards the giggling couple that I realized why she looked so frantic.

I had never seen Gilles mad before. In those brief displays of cruelty I had witnessed, he always maintained a calm that I had thought more unnerving than anger. I was wrong. There was a livid flush creeping over his face and his jaw was clenched as he watched his wife continued to shame him in public. I broke away from Madame Giry trying to get to them first, and I thought I heard the old ballet mistress say something, but it was lost in the roar of the crowd. I shoved my way through as fast as possible, but either my dress was too heavy or my legs too short, because Gilles got to his wife first.

She had been blooming a moment ago. Marriage to a monster and before that, an old man, must have dulled her zest for life. With that stranger, she was young and beautiful again; she was desired and from that she thrived. Champagne was her elixir, the man her dream, but her husband was cold reality and I could see the dream die within her when Gilles approached her and grabbed her by the arm.

She did not try to resist as Gilles dragged her towards the garden doors. The man tried to come to her rescue, and caught Gilles's arm, stopping him before he disappeared outside with Céleste. I pushed my way toward them, thinking maybe I could help. I was not fast enough. Gilles's fist smashed into the man's face and he fell in an unconscious sprawl on the ground.

When I finally got to him, I knelt at the man's side and made sure he was still breathing. I called a servant to help carry him to a bedroom to let him rest.

And then I was moving, flying through the crowds of people, not caring at all that I was making a fool of myself or that I had left the party without telling anyone. I passed through open glass-doors onto the terrace, down the stairway, into the garden, and turned round the hedge.

There was one clear thought in my mind and one clear image of the madness I had seen reflected in Gilles's eyes. And I knew as surely as I knew my name that Gilles Robillard meant to kill his wife tonight.


	9. Catalyst

**Chapter #8**

**Catalyst**

I could have only been minutes seconds behind them; it didn't matter: the sight that greeted me as I turned around the hedge was the culmination of nearly a year of deception and pain. Céleste was sitting on the edge of the fountain, one hand covering her right eye, her other arm slung across her abdomen, and crying. The man towering over her was unaffected.

Gilles was speaking in low tones; words like 'warned you' and 'been too patient' reached me from across the garden. Céleste was shaking her head and crying, "I'm sorry, Gilles. I'm sorry. It won't happen again," weakly, over and over again, her words beginning to run together until I think even she did not know what she said.

Though dulled by distance, I could still hear the laughter and music of the party. I had to get back soon, or someone would notice all three of us were missing. My own shock and anger-fueled bravado over what I had seen in the ballroom had carried me this far; now it abandoned me when I needed it the most.

Céleste's anguished cries were beginning to drown out even the sound of the distant orchestra. When Gilles raised his voice to be heard, Céleste sobs would grow louder too. Finally, Gilles raised his arm, and backhanded her across the other side of her face.

Someone cried, "STOP!" and when Gilles's startled face turned and met mine, I realized who had shouted: me.

I sent a silent prayer to my father, asking him to guide me as I walked into the clearing, breaching the thin line between anonymity and involvement. I would never be able to forgive myself if I walked away.

My blood ran cold at the sight of unattached rage lurking behind Gilles's handsome eyes. "You will miss the dancing, Comtess. Go back inside."

"I am not leaving until you leave her alone," my voice was thin, weak compared to how I should have sounded.

"Madame, I warn you-"

"For God's sake, she's pregnant! Leave her be!" If he had no compassion for his wife, he might at least have some for his child. It was my only hope.

He did not fear me, he did not even hate me. I was an object of desire to him, and my humanity had all but vanished in his mind the moment lust stirred within him at the sight me. I almost wished he could hate me. At least with hate there was still some level of respect. I was nothing to him and he made it clear at that moment, as his eyes swept over me, taking in everything from my loose hair, to the champagne stain on the trimming of my gown, to my chest on a lace trimmed platter for the price of fashion. He might not hit me, but he could make me feel just as small with a smirk.

"Red, Comtess? A bold choice I have never seen on you. Does this change in color denote a change in attitude?" I did not answer. "No matter. I warn you, Comtess; leave me to attend my wife. Do not press me. I am capable of much more than you see here."

Céleste had fallen and was curled in herself on the ground. I could hear small hiccups of tears as she tried to make herself invisible. Her beautiful, golden hair had been meticulously brushed and styled earlier tonight, easily the envy of every woman in the room, and an object of lust for the men. It was soaked now, and clumps hung around her shoulders in ragged tendrils. The wetness did not end at her hair. Most of her upper body was soaked and she was shivering in the cold.

My hands were balled at my sides and I could feel my nails cutting into my flesh.

"What did you do to her?"

"Oh, that? As you saw tonight, Comtess, my wife's blood was a bit hot. I merely cooled her down."

"You tried to drown her?!" my voice finally achieved an angry edge.

"Never 'tried', Comtess. I could have done so if I truly wanted to. And if you do not leave this instant, you will receive similar treatment. One hostess must be presentable."

"If I leave, you will kill her."

"Don't be so dramatic. She is far more useful alive than she is dead. I am merely punishing within my right. The Comte might do the same for you if he knew what secrets his wife held."

I wanted to hurt him. I _had_ to. I had nothing on me, but I came at him and swung my fist to try to knock that ceaseless grin on his face. I was not surprised when he blocked my punch, or when he shoved me to the ground. I covered my skull with my arms and waited for the same blows that befell Céleste.

"I wanted you, Christine. Remember that, because this will give me little pleasure." He raised his arm and I waited for the strike…and waited… and waited.

"Gilles, don't you dare touch her." I opened my eyes and Gilles lowered his arm, slowly. I took the opportunity and scrambled away on my palms. Raoul and Javier were both standing in the same place I had watched Gilles backhand his wife. Javier stayed near the hedge, looking over his shoulder towards the festivities. Raoul came to stand by my side, and without taking his eyes off his brother-in-law, asked if I was hurt.

"I'm fine," I said. He helped me to my feet and gave me a quick look to see if I was telling the truth. Then, he turned back to Gilles.

"Monsieur Robillard, you will pack your things this instant and leave my property. The house is in my name and I will not tolerate you on my premises any longer. My sister will remain with my wife and I until both our lawyers reach an agreement. You are never welcome on my family's lands ever again, so I suggest you leave now."

A look of such profound shock crossed Gilles's face that I could have been looking at a different man. He looked how I felt. I had never, _ever_ imaged Raoul was capable of this.

Gilles reined in his astonishment and crossed his arms over his chest. His grin might have been menacing, if it was not obvious from the moment before that it was an act.

"Is that a threat, Raoul? I didn't think you had it in you."

"If it must be, then it is. You have no right to touch my wife and Céleste does not deserve your anger."

"Oh, but I think she does. _My _wife has humiliated me, and I am prepared to make sure it never happens again. Your parents were far too lenient on her, Raoul. If a father never disciplines his daughter, then her husband has a right to. As for your wife," his gaze shifted to me, and he winked. "You're a boy in a man's shoes, Raoul. Let your wife decide who can touch her, you'll never be enough. Not for her.

"And your threats, monsieur," Gilles raised the side of his coat, "you can see that they have no grounds."

In his belt, was the silver-handled pistol. Raoul stepped back, and I froze. His hand lingered near the weapon, but he made no move to withdraw it. I might have asked what business he had carrying a pistol at a birthday party, but the answer was obvious; to threaten just as he was doing now.

I watched s defeat encompass Raoul. There was more at stake here than life or death. Gilles had already defeated Raoul with his heartless words; the gun just added insult to injury. Gilles saw it too. The silence that followed was more humiliating than if he had smiled.

Gilles lowered the tail of his coat. "Céleste," he said, not taking his eyes off Raoul. She had become utterly silent, almost achieving her goal of invisibility. "Go inside and make yourself presentable. We are all going back to the party. Do you object, monsieur?"

Céleste struggled to her feet. Her gaze darted between both men, and then settled on me. She looked at me as if she expected something, but what could I do? Her eyes shifted to somewhere beyond my left shoulder, and her expression changed from one of shock to fear.

"Senor, if you will not take the Comte's words seriously, then perhaps you should take mine." We had all forgotten Javier in this clash of words and it was to someone's loss; Gilles turned to find the Baron's gun trained on his heart.

While Gilles was distracted, I made my way towards Céleste, and tried to guide her to the other side of the fountain, away from the men. I smoothed the wet hair away from her face, using the edge of my sleeve to wipe her tears. I flinched at the bruise already appearing under her right eye. She stopped my progress, taking my hand in her own and squeezing it. I returned the pressure: the simple act as much a comfort to me as it was to her; we both needed something to hold onto while we watched this drama unfold.

"I always knew you were nothing but a coward, Raoul. You can't even fight your own battles," Gilles spat, throwing an enraged glance toward Javier.

"This was never a battle until you made it into one, Gilles."

"There was never a problem until you imposed yourself on us!"

"You struck her on your wedding night!"

"You don't care-"

"Monster you are-"

"Shame-"

"Pregnant-"

There was a crack like lighting, and I could hear the sound echo miles away. Javier's arm was pointed towards the sky, and smoke danced around the end of his gun.

Javier's heavily accented words cut through the echo of the gun as he spoke to Gilles. "You will let them go, Senor, and you will return to the party before your guests realize their hosts are gone. When it is over, you can all sit down and discuss this calmly. For now, I have fired a gun. We should all return inside before someone comes to see what happened."

No one had to say anything, we all agreed. I helped Céleste move towards the back entrance of the home. She needed rest, and I feared all of this stress might lead her to miscarry.

The men started walking in, with Javier leading the way and Raoul following behind. Gilles stayed in place until Raoul turned to see him.

"You will regret this, Raoul. You will regret the day you crossed me as surely as the sun rises. This is not over."

And then it hit me. The intense eyes, the reserved nature, the edge of violence that surrounded everything he did, the obsession of revenge that inevitably led to destruction. This man was a mirror image of my former tutor: The Phantom of the Opera.

For reasons that could only imply madness, I found it incredibly funny. Céleste nearly jumped out of my arms when I started to laugh. Javier, Raoul, and Gilles all looked at me, and the stunned looks on their faces only served to add strength to my outburst. Gilles's shock, however, quickly turned to annoyance.

"Is there something funny, Comtess?" I only laughed harder. "Will you not share with us? I love a good laugh too."

Even if I could have stopped myself, I could never convey the sheer hilarity I suddenly found in this situation. I'd wager no one had ever laughed at Gilles before, and he did not care for it. He took a menacing step towards me and growled, "Stop it," but I only laughed harder. He said it again and it had the same effect.

Raoul and Javier were frozen in their positions, their gazes shifted between the two of us and completely lost as of what to do. Céleste clung to me, begging me to stop, but I could no more stop laughing than I could stop breathing. I had crossed a line, and while my rational side screamed at me that I would get myself killed, I found that funny too.

Gilles drew back his coat and pulled his gun free. Raoul cried out and started running towards his brother-in-law, when I heard that crack of lighting and the rolling thunder in the distance as the pistol's explosion echoed across the estate.

I was thrown backwards, landing on the ground several feet from where I had stood. A blast of piercing clamor echoed in my ears, which clogged my innards and made it hard to breath. Céleste screamed and laid me on the ground.

"Christine? Christine?" she asked, frantically. "Are you alright? Please, say something!"

"Cé- Céleste?" I moaned. "What happened?"

"Don't try to speak, darling. Just lie still."

I could have smiled. When had the two of us started to care about one another?

She tore off the edge of her beautiful dress, and pressed it to my left shoulder. White-hot pain tore through me, ending at my fingertips, and I too screamed as I realized what had happened: I had been shot.

I could feel the warm, wetness that was my blood flowing out of the wound, and the bullet that was lodged against my shoulder bone. All my senses were focused on the pain in my shoulder. If I saw, it was blackness from shock, if I heard, it was the sound of my blood dripping on the ground. Gradually bits of what was happening outside myself also began to bleed into my consciousness, and I could hear the struggle, not far from where I lay.

I tried sitting up, but Céleste held me still on the ground. I raised my head and looked down my body to better see what was going on around me. Raoul and Gilles were on the ground exchanging blows, and a bewildered Javier clutched his pistol, trying to find a clear shot. Gilles's gun was lying near the base of the fountain, untouched, and both men fought to get to it.

"Raoul," I said, weak as a kitten. He did not hear me. Céleste pressed me back down with her rag and I was too weak to fight her. I wanted to beg her to stop them before someone was killed, but all I managed was another weak, "Raoul…Raoul."

I sat up, ignoring the pain and Céleste's protests, just in time to see Gilles shove Raoul hard enough for him to lose his balance. He stumbled backwards and landed on his back; Gilles scrambled towards his pistol. Javier took advantage their momentary separation, letting off a wild shot in Gilles's direction and then struggling to reload the gun. Gilles did not bother to check the setting when he reached his silver-handled pistol. He picked it up, dusted himself off, and shot Javier in the head.

I had a horrifying premonition of my best friend, dressed entirely in black mourning, her eyes red and swollen from hours of crying for a lost one. But it was not my imagination: it would be real soon enough. If Javier was not dead now, he would be, and I raged at the thought that Meg was still inside, enjoying the party, free of the knowledge that her husband was gone.

Raoul had risen to his knees, but the same pistol that had killed Javier was now fixed on him and he froze. Gilles walked around him, inspecting him as he would a prospective horse, and hit him with the butt of his gun if Raoul dared move.

"You know Raoul. I would never admit this before tonight, but I was always jealous of you, even before I knew you; I had heard of your family and I hated you all. But _you_ especially. Only a man with your means, could have disregarded family for love; anyone else would have been spurned. Now look at you! Title, wealth, a party in your honor, and a wife more desirable than any mistress worth half a bottle of wine. And I ask, why you? What have you done to deserve it?"

Here he knelt in front of Raoul and looked him in the face. His gun draped casually over his knee, his body rigid with years of bottled up hate.

"Nothing! Absolutely nothing! Now you will fix it that I can't have _her_ even in your death. Let that be the only comfort you take with you to your grave."

Gilles raised his gun and pointed it at Raoul's head. I cried "Raoul!" and struggled to my feet to go to him. My cry caused a momentary distraction to Gilles and Raoul used it to push the barrel of the gun skyward, Gilles pulled it back down, and it went off in a loud roar.

They struggled again, exchanging grunts and curses in a conversation of brutal desperation. At first, they seemed evenly matched, but Raoul grew tired with each passing moment. Gilles drove one fist into Raoul's stomach, then another into his side, and Raoul dropped like a stone. My brother-in-law did not wait to see if he had done any lasting damage. He cast one last look at the carnage he had created: Javier dead on the cobblestones, Raoul splayed at his feet, and me.

He held my eyes for a time. He was panting, and a lucky blow from Raoul had opened a gash on his forehead that ran into his hairline. I saw the regret and longing he had for me and I almost pitied him. Almost. With a final wink, he turned his back to me and headed towards the stables.

I saw Javier's gun lying on the cobblestones beside its slain owner as I made my way towards Raoul. I picked it up without thinking, careful to keep my gaze off of the body. Raoul's eyes were open when I finally knelt next to him and he was staring at the glowing constellations a million years away.

He raised his head to look at me, and I saw the puckered skin of fresh bruises growing on his face.

"Are you hurt?" he asked.

"I'll be fine. Are _you_ hurt?"

Laying his head back on the ground, he sighed and shook his head. Suddenly, his eyes opened, and he had a wild look about him.

"Javier?" There was a lump in my throat, and it choked off my air when I tried to tell him that Meg's husband was gone. He read my pain, then asked, "Céleste?"

"She's fine, she's-" In truth, I did not know where she was. I looked to where she had nursed me, but all that was left was my own blood. "Céleste went inside to get help. She'll be back soon."

"I never realized," he said, staring at the sky again, "They are so beautiful, Christine. You were always right."

"What is?" There was a dreamy quality in his voice that I had not heard in years. It was akin to the young Raoul I had known, begging my father for one more story before we were sent to bed. I might have welcomed it once before, now it made my blood run cold.

"The stars. I never bothered to see." His hand found mine and he squeezed.

"Hush, Raoul, you're talking like you're on your deathbed."

I placed my hand on my chest, to lighten the mood and reassure him, but he took it and pressed it against his own chest. The cough that followed was an angry, wet sound that startled, I pulled away. But I brought it back and let him guide it to a growing stain on his shirtfront.

Blood is faith. It keeps you alive, but a hole the size of your finger frees it and kills you. I saw Raoul's life's blood flowing out of him. I pressed my hand to the fatal wound and marveled at the warmth as it stained my fingertips. I honestly believed that the meager prayer I recited of "Please god, please god, please god," could heal him and I kept doing it until Raoul had to raise his voice to get my attention.

"Christine, please don't cry."

"Raoul, you will be alright. I'll go get someone-" I tried to get up, but his hand would not let go.

"Don't bother. Stay with me," he kissed my hand. "Christine, you have to tell them what happened. They might think otherwise."

"But Raoul-"

"And take care of Céleste. Never let that bastard get near the baby," speaking was becoming difficult for him and I held his hand tighter to keep him with me.

"I won't, but Raoul, you have to try. What would I do without you?"

"You'll live. You have always been much stronger than you realized, Little Lotte…"

I suddenly hated that name: I knew it meant goodbye. I could feel his life slipping away beneath me and I stubbornly held onto him even as his grip on my hand slackened. I felt his gold signet ring pinch my palm and I welcomed the pain. I wanted it to leave a permanent mark on my skin. I felt him grow colder and colder, until there was nothing left but a tiny spark.

For a while, I sat there staring at his still face, waiting for grief to come. I knew it was in me somewhere, growing like a cancer that would soon consume me. But it lay dormant and no matter how much I willed it, it left me alone in the warm summer night.

I heard the sound of hooves. The stables sat near the west end of the grounds on the edge of a wild forest, the east led to paved grounds, the city, and civilization. Gilles Robillard had decided to escape in comfort.

I clenched my fist in rage and realized I still held Javier's gun in one hand. In the other, I clutched Raoul's signet ring, now free from his left finger; I slipped it into my bodice where it nestled close to my heart. Abrupt and alone, I stood up from the body of my fallen husband, placed myself directly in Gilles's path, and raised the gun. I had my anger to guide me, but not a marksman's experience. Gilles saw my intent even before I knew mine and he steered his horse out of the line of fire. The gun went off and though the horse reared, nothing was hit. They raced passed me, and I spun on my heel to follow him.

I fired the gun once, twice, three times at his retreating figure, my blood singing both in excitement and hatred. I wanted that man dead, banished to hell if possible, but my bullets could not keep up with him.

And when I turned, gun in hand, I beheld Inspector Clavell, bright-eyed from the excitement of the party, wide-eyed from the sight of me. I stood alone, two bodies at my feet, both blood-spattered and lifeless, a gun held in my hand, and rage lurking in my eyes. My own blood still poured from my shoulder, quickly becoming lost in the crimson of my dress. Behind the inspector, I saw the hundreds of my other guests, all invited to celebrate the anniversary of the birth of my husband.

The world suddenly began to shrink, the images on the edges of my vision becoming streaked with black, my head as weightless as air. I felt myself fall, losing consciousness as the blood-loss took effect on my weary body. I could only hope that I would not wake up.

Because the irony of the night was not lost on me.

* * *

_A/N: What can I say? I love conflict. Hope you enjoyed and please don't forget to leave a review._

_Whatever holiday you celebrate, may it be happy, healthy, and surrounded by loved ones._


	10. Karma

**Chapter #9**

**Karma**

How many times had I awoken on velvet pillows and silk sheets? How many times had I awoken ignorant of the future, but confident of my own security? All that sanctity and assurance was lost to me when the moving carriage jostled me awake.

I had no memory of where I was, or even who I was. I felt drained and lightweight as a feather. All that penetrated the fog of my muddled brain was that I was not in bed, and that my wrists pained me terribly. When I looked down, I saw that thick, metal shackles hung off my wrists like oversized iron bracelets, connected by an even heavier chain with the nastiest lock I had ever seen.

At first, I merely stared at them. With my mind in chaos as it was, their presence did not make sense to me. A coarse traveling cloak covered the remnants of my dress, hiding everything but these monstrosities that seemed to swallow my small wrists. I raised my arms and my muscles quivered with the effort. A pain shot through my shoulder, and I let my hands drop back onto my lap until it passed. Raising my forearms again slightly, careful to not cause another spasm of pain, I experimentally stretched my wrists apart, testing the length of the chain until they ended their progress with a loud _clank_.

"You will get used to them; I promise you that, Madame la Comtess."

Inspector Georges Clavell's features stared impassively back at me from across the carriage with his thin mustache, rigid posture, and full uniform that I remembered well; but it was the memory of another face brought me completely awake.

"Raoul!" I was trembling, but not from the weight of the chains.

"Yes, 'Raoul'," he said calmly. "Comte de Chagny. You know him, don't you? You killed him, after all."

My mind would not even give me the comfort of amnesia; I remembered _everything_. I remembered being shot, I remembered Raoul's weak hands pressing my own into his wound, and the blood _so much blood_ baptizing us both unto his death.

It occurred to me then, in the vague way thoughts manifest themselves, that my wounded shoulder had been bandaged. That process was absent from my memory. I experimentally rolled my shoulder and regretted the act. The wound was tightly bandaged, and apparently clean, but I could still feel the bullet under the skin, grating against my shoulder bone.

Inspector Clavell answered my unspoken question. "Your sister-in-law insisted you be treated. I would not allow for her to call a doctor, as there will be one at the end of our journey, but she dressed your shoulder and gave you that cloak before we placed you in the carriage. The woman has an odd sense of loyalty."

"Where is she?" Céleste had disappeared sometime during the chaos, but when exactly and why I did not know.

"She is at home, suffering from shock. You will see Madame Robillard at your trial. I should remember thank her, too. Up until the end, it truly was an enjoyable evening. I do not think I have ever had such wonderful Tiramisu in my life."

"Trial?" I asked. Information was coming at me too quickly, and I struggled to find my place in it.

He plowed on in his conversation, content to be both speaker and listener. "Though I cannot figure out why you did it. I never thought Swedes lacked originality, for all their Viking stories. This whole thing reeks of predictability."

"What are you talking about?"

"Your motive for murder, Comtess," he seemed to relish my confusion, explaining the events as if reciting a fairy tale to a child. "It really lacks originality: A jealous woman, driven to madness upon learning that another woman was carrying her lover's child, kills her own husband to be free. It will be the most notorious story in all of France as soon as your guests return to their homes. And popularity is far more important than substance these days, you know."

Any lawyer could have pointed out a thousand flaws in his fairy tale motive. Where was Gilles? Had anyone actually seen me shoot either Raoul or Javier? And if so, why would I have been shot too? There was one thought, though, that I grasped in my grief and panic that I felt was enough to show this man I could not have done any of this.

"I- I didn't kill him…." I insisted. "He was my _husband_!"

I struggled to raise my arms to hide my face and spare myself the humiliation of breaking down in front of him, but my chains were too heavy, my spirit too weak, and my arm too sore. I had a sudden, horrifying image of Raoul's prone and lifeless body, his beautiful blue eyes, closed forever to this world. Another quickly followed, of the same man, alone in a cherry-wood casket, no one to mourn him, no one to care that he had lived.

"Where is he? Where have you put him?" I demanded. The inspector yawned and removed a neatly folded handkerchief from his breast pocket. He used it to wipe the sweat off his brow, then returned it to his pocket.

"You forfeited all rights to act as the mourning widow when you killed him, Madame. His family will see that he goes to his final rest."

I had to swallow my revulsion at his being spoken of like a lifeless object. "I _am_ his family and I didn't kill him!"

The officer held up a hand "You may save the theatrics, Madame. I grow tired of it now. We will be arriving soon, till then I would appreciate it if you kept your murdering mouth shut."

"But wha-" He drew back his gloved hand, and slapped me across my face. In my weakened, bewildered state it didn't take much to send me sprawling back against the seat.

I had fainted a few times before in my life; from shock, exhaustion, and, most recently, blood loss from a bullet would, but this blackout was different. I had feared Gilles's hard fists, but I had at least expected those blows; now, this sudden strike from such a calm man took me totally by surprise. My vision darkened, and I was neither awake nor asleep, blind to my surroundings, and conscious only of the pain that radiated from my injuries. I sucked in a harsh breath, wincing as my jaw throbbed. Breathing did nothing to lessen my aches, but I continued to breathe, each pained gasp coming with sharpened cruelty.

The inspector was grinning at me when I finally came to, straightening the end of his glove.

"I already asked you to keep silent, Madame, and I will not do so again. If you cannot learn through words I shall be forced to reckon with you in different ways. Don't let it happen again."

We sat in silence for several moments. I cradled my throbbing jaw in my right hand and tried desperately to swallow the tears of humiliation. I would not let him see me cry. If I could not have anything else, at least I might have my dignity.

"You may be wondering where we are going. We are heading to the local law enforcement. I cannot properly interrogate you in the Robillard home. From there, you will be tried and I daresay found guilty. If the court is lenient, it will be hanging. If not, and I will do my best to make sure it is not, you will wish you were never born."

I could not stay upright any longer. I slumped on my side on the bench and willed the waves of physical ache to leave me. But as they finally began to lessen, another surged just as strong. There are things I know with absolute certainty when I am with Raoul: I am safe, I am secure, I am his wife, I am loved. But now that he was gone, what was I?

"Why?" I nearly sobbed. "Why are you doing this to me? I am innocent!"

"I uphold the law, and you broke it. You murdered one of the finest men I have ever met and you deserve full recourse," he was not looking at me, and though he spoke to me, he was lost deep inside his own thoughts "I will never understand how you ensnared him, but even great men are weak. The best men can compromise their morals for the female form. He was only human, for all his virtues."

"You're jealous that he married me?! Or is this recourse because Lady Simonette would never have to courage to do what my _husband_ did?" I was risking another slap, but the advantage of having nothing left, is that you have nothing left to loose.

I saw a glimmer of amusement and something like respect cross his face when I hurled my words at him, but it was fleeting. He leaned forward in his seat until nothing but his mustached-face encompassed my vision. Up close, I could see that his eyes were a mixture of green and blue, and when he smiled, they could even be considered beautiful. But every kind thought I had of him vanished when he gripped my shackles and pulled me upright.

I cried out as the skin of my wrists rubbed raw against metal and the bullet in my shoulder shifted again.

His voice was quiet, like he was telling me a remarkable secret, to be kept in confidence. The words tickled in my ear. "Over seven years ago, Madame, you kept me from upholding my duty when we tried to catch that deranged madman. You know who I speak of… Do you know what it's like to try and explain to your superiors that you want to chase a ghost? To convince them, and then come up empty handed? I had to beg and claw my way back to the bottom like some worthless whore when I could have been a politician by now. It was all your fault, Comtess, and you did nothing but bloom and marry one of the wealthiest men in Europe. Everything you do comes back to you in some way. The Indians call it 'Karma,' I call it your 'just desserts'."

He threw the chains back at me and the conversation was over. I did not even have the luxury of losing my thoughts to passing scenery; the drapes had been drawn. There was nowhere to look except at my captor, or the shackles he had put me in. I choose the latter, a symbol of my impending doom.

When the Inspector insisted that I had forfeited all right as a mourning widow, he had meant it literally. As I stared at my shackles, I realized something was missing. The fourth finger of my left hand was bare: they had taken my wedding ring. Neither did I have the necklace Raoul had given me on our anniversary, or my earrings. I had lost all tangible evidence of my husband save my own memories.

I could feel my sorrow growing deep within me. It quivered in my pit of my stomach like a caged animal, waiting for an opportunity to free itself. But if I did not think, it could not live and as I stared at my shackles, I slowly killed all thoughts within my head, until it was nothing more than an empty cavern. Only when I felt the last vestiges of my mind disappear, did I allow myself to breathe, to simply be.

We sat in silence for several minutes while the driver picked our way through the streets. I suspected the carriage belonged to Lady Simonette; I doubted usual ones touting criminals were lined in silk and lace. Clavell kept one hand on a leather-bag sitting next to him. It was old and worn, and had the emblem of the Paris gendarmes on the side.

The carriage suddenly stopped and I was nearly thrown into the Inspector's lap. We both heard commotion outside and a sound like a human cry. The cracking of a whip followed while the driver urged the horse on. We did not move.

With a muttered curse, Inspector Clavell opened the carriage door and began to step out. He stopped before leaving me and fixed me with a stony look.

"We do not need you alive to try you, Comtess. Don't do anything funny," then he was gone.

I did not dare leave, but I did stick my head out, pushing aside the drawn curtains. Lying in the middle of a road, was a young, olive-skinned man, wailing in pain. The driver had come down from his perch and was arguing with several people gathering around the scene. The man was not dressed in the usual peasantry garb, but a rough more colorful outfit, clearly marking him as a foreigner. His words were clipped and garbled in a language I had never heard before, but a young girl, similarly clothed, stood near him, wailing in accented French that the carriage had run over her father.

Inspector Clavell tried to shoo the little girl away, but she only cried louder. She would not allow him to look anywhere but at her, and she had his complete attention.

At that moment, the door on the other side of the carriage, farthest from Clavell, opened, and three young faces appeared. One was a boy, the younger two, girls; the eldest couldn't have been more than eight. They looked as if they might be siblings, sharing the same sable hair and dark eyes. The girls had half of their hair pulled back, hidden beneath colorful headscarves, while the rest swung in two thick plaits in front.

They took me in as I did them with similar gape-mouthed expressions; they clearly hadn't anticipated my presence. Their unease evaporated when their collective gazes stopped on my shackles. The youngest girl tugged on the boy's sleeve and whispered something in his ear. The boy grinned at me and reaching a thin arm into the carriage, removing the gendarme bag on the inspector's side of the carriage. I was clearly no threat to them and they helped themselves to everything in his bag.

One of the children climbed into the carriage and stood in front of me. She smiled, and I smiled back as it seemed to be the only thing to do. She parted the edges of my cloak until the remains of my attire were visible to all. The red silk was almost unrecognizable, covered in brown stains, and the right side had a white, chalky substance smeared across it from the gravel when I had kneeled beside Raoul.

The young girl placed her hands on both of my wrists and raised them. She let them drop again and ran her tiny hands along the chain from one bracelet to the other. She tugged on one of the shackles, as if she had the strength to break them. When it was clear that she could not, she gave me an apologetic smile, and then started to search around me for goods.

She had the confidence and bearing of an expert thief and the body of an innocent. She knelt down on the floor and ran her fingers along the bench board behind where people rested their feet. Several times, she knocked with her tiny fists and waited for the board to give up some kind of secret. She knocked and knocked until she was rewarded with a hollow response. Then, standing on her own two feet, she kicked the bench and a perfect square of wood fell free.

She let out a small cry of triumph and reached in with both hands. She pulled out a battered, wooden box and presented it to her companions. The boy grabbed it with equal enthusiasm, and opened the box to reveal an assortment of jewels and money.

I knew that noblemen and women found clever ways to hide precious wealth from robbers when they traveled, but I had no idea how much wealth was considered essential for travel. Lady Simonette was a fool, and judging by the contents of the box, she was also an incredibly wealthy one.

The children helped themselves, stuffing their oversized clothes with Lady Simonette's jewels and money until they could carry no more. The little girl pulled free a small gold crucifix on a chain and held it out to me, offering it. At first she seemed confused that I didn't take it, but then she seemed to suddenly remember my predicament. She laughed at her mistake, unfastened the necklace, and reached over to put it around my neck.

When they had taken their share of booty, two of the children ran off. The younger girl stared at me for a moment then said something that sounded like "_nash!"_ She gestured frantically at me, then someplace off in the distance outside the carriage. Then she too was gone.

I snapped out of my astonishment when the girl disappeared. I looked outside again, and saw my captor in the same place he was before, though now it had drawn a larger crowd of local citizens.

I realized then what the girl meant.

Leave… run… I could get away!

I dismissed the idea immediately. Dozens of people had gathered around the carriage and Clavell would shoot me before I made it down the street. But still… did it matter? I was doomed anyway. At the end of this journey Clavell would do his best to make sure I was hung, and if I were let free… what life did I have now that it was shattered?

I gave one last glance at the argument between Clavell and the people, then eased myself out on the same side as the mysterious children, being careful not to let my chains catch on the door handle.

I started walking, beginning at a slow pace that gradually picked up speed the farther I got from the carriage. People passed by me on all sides, all intent on seeing the commotion I was leaving behind.

I did not look back. I did not look forward. I kept my head down and tried to conceal my shackles in the folds of my cloak. I stared at my moving feet and looked up only when I sensed an impending impact with someone walking the other way.

But when I turned a corner that led down a random alley-way, I ran for my life.

I ran, ignoring the way my shoulder jolted in pain with every footfall, the way that every breath seemed laced with fire. So often in the last day my consciousness had focused solely on my physical pain, my emotional anguish, but now I found myself wondering bemusedly what the karmic 'reward' for these actions would be.

* * *

_**A/N:** Please review!_


	11. Away We'll Flee

**Chapter #10**

**Away We'll Flee**

Fear is madness, terror is insanity, and I held both. They licked at my heels as I tore through the city, bumping into people that must have thought I was insane. But city-dwellers, used to the busy foot traffic, are surprisingly tolerant: most of them just got out of my way.

I ran. I ran. And I ran. My heart burned and my lungs ached, but I would not stop. I pumped my thighs with a savage determination, driving myself onward through fear of what was behind me.

Every step was accompanied by a rhythmic, clanking reminder of my shackles, and a harsh breath from my lungs. I had to catch myself as the heel of one of my fashionable shoes gave way beneath me, the sharp 'snap' reminding me of a bone breaking. I kicked off both my shoes till I wore nothing on my feet but gartered-stockings, and kept running.

Eventually, the orderly stone and wood buildings ended, and a sea of farmland opened before me. Deciding that I'd rather be sheltered slightly than continue on in the open, I turned from the road, cutting across one of the wide fields that surrounded me. They weren't quite the soft, grassy plains that they first appeared to be: I cursed every branch and bush that clawed at my face while I ran through. Several times, the metal chains caught in branches, pulling at my already raw wrists until I knew for certain the wetness I felt running down my palms was my own blood.

The farm fields seemed to go on forever; I hardly noticed when intended crops gave way to the wild foliage of the forest. When I did, I paused, finally allowing myself to mull over my situation.

I was freezing, my body shivering even as sweat ran down my face. My throat was dry and raw, growing worse with each ragged breath. I knew if I did not rest soon, I would surely keel over. My head was also swimming dangerously, from what I assumed was the blood loss and pain of the wound in my shoulder. My impulsiveness had cursed and saved me by turns, first compelling me to follow Gilles and Céleste into the garden, and then to escape from that wretched policeman. Now it left me without a strategy, my only plan to run until I felt safe. But I could not simply run forever; I would have to stop eventually, make a living for myself… But how could I even do that? What skills did I possess? I had been a Comtess for several years, and before that, a performer. I couldn't risk an occupation as visible as a singer or actress. Word might reach Clavell, and the noose waiting for my neck would then be appeased.

I _did_ still have family in Sweden. My father once told me of a younger brother, and my mother's large family whom we had left behind. They might be kind enough to take me in.

These thoughts brought up an overwhelming need for my homeland. I had not been there in over fifteen years, but I craved its crisp winters, moist springs, and the beat of a language that still inhabited my mental conversations.

Suddenly, the forest was not nearly as menacing as it had once been. The green hues were now breathtaking. Moonlight penetrating the canopy of leaves made me feel as if I were floating through a fairytale. I almost hoped wood nymphs would appear and take me deep below the roots to keep me forever.

Then, feeling as if I were leaving a chapter of my life behind, I took a step and never looked back.

My foot immediately caught on a tree root and threw me face-first onto the ground. I doubled up on the forest floor and gasped for breath. After a few moments, I rolled over onto my back and stared unseeing at the canopy leaves, and the stars that lay beyond.

What on earth was I doing? Sweden? Long-lost family? A cruel part of my brain said I should give up, that I had nothing left to live for. If I lay here and let fate, beast, or man take my life at least I knew it would be over.

But there was something else inside of me that was much stronger. I wanted to live. I was still young, and I felt as if I had a right to something better. There was still so much love I wanted to give, so many things I wanted to see and feel; I wanted the experiences of my life written upon my skin like a badge of honor, even if those years didn't contain Raoul. I wanted more than the hand that I had been dealt, even if it meant I had to reshuffle fate's cards myself. I wanted to live!

I rolled back onto my stomach and pushed my torso up. Another pain shot through my shoulder, as the hidden bullet reminded me of its sojourn in my body. My elbows buckled under the strain, and my forehead struck my shackles when I fell to the forest floor.

I lay there dazed for a moment. Then a pain began to pierce the haze, something hard digging into the skin above my breasts. It was small and unrelenting. Eventually, the annoyance of it was enough to stir me so I could roll over and be free of it. I reached down into the bodice of my dress and felt something metallic and warm. I pulled it out but could not see what it was, as a cloud was hiding the moon.

When it parted, I saw that I held a tiny, golden glow in my fingers. A simply carved cross stared back at me and I meant to laugh out loud, though I probably sobbed.

It was Raoul's signet ring! I clutched it to my breast, near the cross that odd little thief girl had given me, and imagined that it still held some of my husband's warmth. I kissed it and slid it onto my wedding-ring finger, but it was too large. I slid it on my thumb, and when it didn't slip off, I relished it like it was a holy relic. I had something to remind me that someone in this world had once loved me. No one could take it from me: I would not let them!

With a renewed strength, I stood. I looked around me to gauge my direction and started walking. My body took over. My mind, too exhausted from the emotional traumas of the daydays, perhaps had left me with only enough awareness to stop me from running into an odd tree. My legs seemed to be walking in time with a melody. I listened, trying to remember the words to a song that was on the tip of my tongue, when I realized I was in rhythm with something greater. The forest was very much alive and I seemed to be right in the center of it all. An owl called in time with my steps, and a nightingale joined the chorus. My breath came in gasps with the off-beat and my shackles offered a perfect _chink_ _chink_ with my steps to accompany. Somewhere in my mind, the words to a melody long forgotten came to me and I almost see the words before me:

_Walk, walk, walk, O love,  
Walk quickly to me, softly move;  
Walk to the door, and away we'll flee,  
And safe may my darling be._

It was all I could remember of the lyrics. I repeated them over and over until it came as naturally as my steps.

_Walk, walk, walk, O love,  
Walk quickly to me, softly move;  
Walk to the door, and away we'll flee,  
And safe may my darling be._

Odd, I had not sung at all in the last five years and now I felt as if it was the only thing that kept me going. Who had taught it to me? It could have been my father, but the melody was not Swedish.

All the pains and bruises seemed somewhere far below me as my mind floated high above the trees. I imagined I could see myself down there, walking towards an unknown destination, humming a random melody to keep my thoughts at bay. I watched myself in pity as the strain of it all finally caught up with me and I barely made it to the closest tree, before my legs finally gave out beneath me.

I was too exhausted to even curl up on myself for warmth, too tired to question why I was in the forest lying among leaves when I should have been at home in a soft bed curled against my husband. My body was shutting down limb by limb until a wonderful numbness began to take over. My last thought was suddenly remembering that I had learned that odd song at a fair with my father and then there was nothing more, deep within the forest.

I awoke sometime after dawn when my stomach started to protest its lack of food. The last time I had eaten had been at the party, but that could have been days ago. The animals that shared this place lived off its bounty, but I did not share their knowledge of the forest's plants. The budding berries on a nearby bush seemed just as poisonous to me as the dirt in the ground.

In my desire, I thought perhaps I did smell food. A smoky waft of roasted meat and garlic reached my nostrils and my mouth watered. My baser instincts took over and nothing occupied my mind but a desire to eat what I smelled.

I left my hiding space and followed the scent. The noise my shackles made seemed unnaturally loud as they banged against my body, but there was nothing I could do about it. The trees around me were starting to thin. I could see rising smoke ahead of me and any fear I might have had about approaching strangers ceased as the smell of food grew stronger.

As I came closer, I could see signs of people. Caravans were arranged in a circle near a small lake, and hunted deerskins and strips of meat were strung up on tree branches to dry. Normally, I would be repulsed by the thought of eating raw meat, but my stomach insisted anything was better then this empty agony.

People could not have been far; there were too many signs of life here for someone to simply abandon them. Several horses trotted through the camps, but surprisingly few dogs or cats. The brightly colored caravans were very close together, almost impenetrable, and I thought I heard voices crying. My common sense was completely overridden by curiosity now, and I started following sounds rather than smells. I knew I should go back: I had to retreat to the forest and maybe find my own way, but there was such a feeling of hopeless desolation, my feet could do nothing but follow.

_Softly move… away we'll flee…_

What I found was life at its end. The air was ripe with living voices and beating hearts, but one of those was fading. A crowd of people were gathered around a young boy on his deathbed, sheltered under a weak canopy at the end of a wagon. The women were crying and beating their breasts, the men let the tears flow free and all wailed their grief through practiced voices.

The boy was alive, but he had a growing, glazed look over his face to say that he was not long for this world. An older and a younger woman ran damp rags all over his body, seeming to clean him, and wailed. The boy let them work and occasionally whispered things that only those closest to him could hear.

I felt sickened at myself for what I had intruded upon. I started to back away, mindful of every step so as not to draw attention to myself, and calculating my next move. Forget food, I had to flee. I would not stop running until I reached the ocean, then I would worry about passage to Sweden.

But just as this plan was forming in my mind, I backed into something, warm, solid, and human.

"_Gadjí_!" a voice roared and I felt a hand go over my mouth, cutting off my air. Something tugged at my chains, and I reflexively bit down on the hand from the pain.

My captor let go for a moment, and I used it to try and flee. But the noise had already attracted attention, and three men were on me before I could run. They tackled me, once again knocking the wind out of my body, and I gasped for air as one of them raised my arms submissively above my head. I cried out as the pain in my shoulder nearly made me blind. While he held my arms, another man placed a spike among the links in my chain, and drove it into the ground with a sickening, crunch.

It was over. I should have known I would not make it far. But I was not sad. I was relieved. I took comfort in the fact that I would not be far behind Raoul. If only I could move swiftly towards him.

* * *

_**A/N:**__ the song is an old Irish tune close to my heart called, "Siuil a Run." Since I could not think of any plausible reason why Christine would know how to speak Gaelic (and believe me, I tried ;)) I used the English translations. The chorus in Gaelic is as follows:_

_Siuil, siuil, siul a run,  
Siuil go sochair agus siuil go ciuin  
Siuil go doras agus ealaigh lion  
Is go dte tu mo mhuirnin slan _

_Rather pretty, isn't it? Celtic Women's Orlagh does a beautiful version of it._

_Please make my day and leave a review!_


	12. God's Sense of Humor

**Chapter #11**

**God's Sense of Humor**

Mongrel dogs became my companions when my captors left me. The smell of fresh blood, my blood, was too irresistible, and it drew them from all corners of the camp. I had not seen them when I first wandered in, and naively thought there were none. All of them circled me, and one licked my leg, but none were brave enough to investigate the sweet smell that had drawn them here: I was still too much alive.

I had realized almost right away that struggling was futile. I lay on my back, my hands staked securely in the mud above my head. Even if I wanted to put up a fight or try to escape, my body had been too abused. The bullet in my shoulder still pained me, but as long as I kept that part of me immobile, I could bear it. I was not uncomfortable, but I was aching and desperately tired; it was much easier not to fight.

I sighed and stared up at the sky. It was still early morning, but the sky was overcast. If it started to rain, would anyone bother to shelter me? I made occasional small movements to keep the dogs away. Time dragged on, and my twitches grew less frequent as fatigue took over.

I wanted to sleep. I needed it, and I think I might have, because the next thing I knew, I felt teeth close down on my left thigh.

Something inside of me snapped and all the rage, fear, and hurt I had shoved to the back recesses of my mind suddenly escaped my body in a ragged scream. A dog let out a surprised yelp and several of them ran off. My captors would hear me, but I didn't care. I had nothing to care for anymore and I screamed the injustice of it at the sky.

Someone pulled the stake from the ground and I was free. A woman, a concerned, motherly thing, knelt beside me and put a hand on my stomach to calm me. She said something to me, but I did not bother to hear over my screams. I swung my shackles at her and hit her in the leg.

At the end of everything, complete audacity seemed the only thing to do. The same man that had staked me to the ground bodily picked me up. I tried fighting him, but he was at least three times my size. He grunted when my knee hit his stomach, but he held me firm as he carried me towards the caravans. A large crowd of similarly dressed people had gathered at the noise I was making, but I did not care. My mind whispered the word 'Gypsies' and I immediately accepted it as who these people were. I kicked, I clawed, I drew blood, and in the end, they threw me into a cage.

The cage was of a decent size, and could easily house a large animal; from the smell of it, and the grimy straw scattered across the floor, it had been put to that use, and recently too. It sat on the ground at the back of a caravan, on the outer edge of the circle of wagons. I could see the forest from the underbelly of the caravan, though my view obscured by the wagon wheels. When the padlock clicked closed, I crawled to the farthest corner and pulled my ruined skirt over my head to hide myself from the world; it made poor shelter. The barred metal structure left me exposed on every side, and not even my voluminous, if tattered, skirts could keep out the wind.

When they saw that I was through with my fit, many of the Gypsies went back to the ceremony I had interrupted, now twice. Several others stayed to see the chained stranger. I did not want to be their entertainment and I was still so tired. I burrowed further into my skirts and hoped they would go away.

Something poked at my thigh. I tried feigning sleep and lay still. The object poked again and again as it made its way up my body until it probed me sharply in the ribs.

I sat straight up. My agitator was not expecting this and she let out a squeal and jumped back to the safety of her other companions.

I knew her. I did not remember where from, or how, but I _knew_ her.

She raised a tiny hand and shyly waved at me. The gesture was so innocent, I returned it. She started to beat her tiny chest and when I did the same, my hand brushed again the gold cross that hung from my neck, and my eyes widened slightly in realization.

I crawled towards her. She and the other little girls with her had moved out of my reach by the time I reached the bars. I held out my hand to her as far as my shackles would allow. She looked around herself as if she expected to be caught, and then giggled. It was the little girl who had robbed the carriage before I escaped from Clavell. Part of me wanted to hit her, part of me wanted to hug her, but all I wished for take right now was simple human contact.

For a moment, I feared she would reject me, run away with her friends and leave me alone. Odd, how after all I had been through, something as simple as the rejection of a child would hurt me. She had the largest brown eyes I think I had ever seen and they searched my face for any sign of danger. I did not think I had ever looked dangerous a moment in my life, but I willed my face to look soft and inviting. She looked towards her friends, but they were too caught up in their awe of me to offer her any assistance.

She took small steps towards the cage and then, she touched the metal circles that kept my hands prisoner. She tugged on one just as she had before, as if she had the strength to break them, and once again they held fast. She gave up, and slowly, she put her tiny hand in my own. I was not a large person myself, but my hand easily swallowed her own.

"Hello?" she said, with the uncertainty of one speaking in a foreign tongue. The word must have tasted foreign to her.

I tried to smile. "Yes, hello! Do you remember me?"

I held out the gold cross and she seemed to understand. She shook her head 'yes' and struck her chest again. I squeezed her hand in affection, but it scared her and she pulled away. Her friends ran off.

She looked as if she might follow, but I threw myself against the bars and begged. "No, no. I'm sorry, I did not mean to scare you. Do you know if there is anyone who can talk to me?"

"Talk?" she repeated.

"Yes talk," I tapped my throat. How did one convey speech in another language?

She tapped herself on the chest again, but with less force this time.

"Dika," she said and tapped her chest again. I did not understand.

"Dika," she repeated. "Dika."

Reaching over, she pointed to me. With her other hand she tapped her chest again and repeated that word. A word that suddenly sounded very much like a name.

"Oh! Christine. My name is Christine." I tapped my chest again and again repeating my name.

"Christine… Christine talk?"

Relief overwhelmed me that my arms started to shake. She understood, at least a little.

"Yes, Christine talk. Find someone, please? I need to talk to somebody."

"Talk," she said again and a look of fierce concentration crossed her tiny face.

A woman, not much older then myself, had come out from behind a caravan and started calling for Dika. The woman had the same large eyes and dark hair and I assumed she must be Dika's mother. Dika left me and ran towards the woman. She gave me one last look before disappearing after her mother; it seemed to say 'I'll remember'.

As I spent the rest of the day alternating between asleep and awake, I became something of an attraction for the Gypsies. They came, always in groups, to stare at the strange woman in the voluminous skirts trapped in the cage. They were not all cruel. One old lady brought me bread and cheese, which I swallowed before realizing the bread was quiet stale. Still, I was grateful. I was even grateful for the cage, which at least kept the dogs away.

I could understand their interest: If a blood-soaked stranger had stumbled upon me and my friends, I might be curious myself. But while there were many who simply wanted to look, there were a few that craved morbid entertainment.

The first rock hit me on the arm while I was dozing. The second came as I looked around myself to see what had happened. A group of about ten young Gypsy boys, all holding rocks in their fists, looked curious and determined, like a cat toying with an unlucky mouse.

"What-" I started and then was hit in the middle of my forehead. I pulled my skirt over my head and felt the rest of the rocks rain down on me. There was a pause and I looked out from my hiding place only to see them gathering more stones.

I burrowed once again in my skirts and braced for the inevitable, but it never came. I kept myself hidden, fearing some cruel trick, and curled myself tighter into a ball. I peeked out of the shelter to see several of the boys looking at something beyond my line of vision. Fear was plainly written over their young faces and they dropped their weapons on the ground.

Something sharp started to jab into my ribs and I tried hard not to move despite the pain. Then something small and soft started to pat my leg, accompanied by the soothing voice of a child.

When I came out of my nest, Dika was standing close to my cage. Her tiny hand reached through the pars and rested on my thigh, smiling reassuringly in a way that let me know no one would hurt me anymore.

"Christine talk," she said proudly and pointed behind her.

There was more than just a mere crowd of boys now. Dozens of Gypsies had come to see what the commotion was about. But their attention was not for me, it was for another figure standing in the middle of the parted crowd. Fear was palatable in the air, and so was respect. Standing there, omnipotent like an angel of death I remembered, was The Phantom of the Opera.

* * *

_**A/N:** He's baaack! Bwahahaha! You didn't think I forgot about our favorite phantom, did you?_

_Don't forget to leave a review._


	13. Message from the Past

**Chapter #12**

**Message from the Past**

He looked the same… and yet completely different. I recognized those piercing gold eyes, but the frame of the man was not the one I remembered. He seemed larger, taller, and far more menacing. A familiar mask covered his face from forehead to lips, hiding his secret from the rest of the world by a thin layer of finely tailored kidskin. This one was not white and from a distance, one might believe it was a natural human face; yet the harsh, immobile lines showed it to be nothing more then a clever, flesh-colored dye. His loose, comfortable threads proclaimed him a Gypsy with his own personal touch of plain black without the slightest trace of flair.

If I ever saw him again- and I had little reason to believe I would- I would have never pictured him in a place like this. Building fantastic buildings, maybe; writing symphonies for the great theatre's of Europe, definitely. Never here. Not even in my wildest dreamings would I picture him in the middle of the brush with Gypsies, or anyone else for that matter.

He had never been one to give away his emotions, but several blinks let me know he was nearly as surprised to see me as I was him.

The crowd had parted on either side giving him a path towards my cage. He hardly moved for a moment, and I entertained the notion that perhaps he was a figment of my imagination. But then he began to move forward, silent as a panther, and I his unlucky quarry.

All the Gypsies showed him absolute respect as he came towards me, some voicing what I thought were greetings. He nodded occasionally in acknowledgement, but didn't speak, and never took his eyes off me.

Their reactions to him were far cries from the screams I remembered on the night of my last performance. People had run, others had fainted dead at the sight of that face. No living person could bear to look upon such a tragedy and it was only through force of will that I had. Perhaps these Gypsies did not know him as he truly was.

But, a voice of reason whispered in my mind, this was not the same man I knew at eighteen. This was someone different and I had never known him well to begin with.

Little Dika was practically beaming, very much pleased with the culmination of her work. Her brown eyes darted between me, and the man approaching, as if she could not decide who was more fascinating.

When he was just out of arm's reach, he kneeled on his haunches and tilted his head to one side, studying me. I scrambled clumsily towards him on all fours, my chains scrapping against the hay and metal on the bottom. I grasped the bars of the cage and pressed my face between them. Seeing those eyes, so real after all these years, set my heart pounding in my chest.

I could think of nothing to say. He was the only person in this place who would understand me, but given our history, I did not feel I had any right to ask for his help. I did not want it either. All the conflicting emotions I had felt in his presence bubbled to the surface. Any tenderness was clouded by intimidation and pain. I would no more willingly let him back into my life than I allow a snake into my bed while I slept.

Yet I knew I would not get out of here without him. No matter the circumstances of our past, there had once been a level of respect between us. I pressed my face between the bars and willed for something –anything- to show on my face that might induce compassion.

His eyes left mine and swept over my body. He took in my chains, my ragged dress, and from the way his nostrils flared, I knew he could smell my blood. I would have liked to look my best and show him the richness of the years we had spent apart, but beggars at a time like this certainly could not be choosers.

My arms gripped high on the bars of the cage. The chains hung like a macabre swing between my arms. He reached out and touched one of the links, examining it with both eyes and fingers until he let go, setting the chain swinging.

Then, he stood. I felt as if I had fallen off a building and landed, hidden from view, in a bush, now out of his scrutiny. My erratic heartbeat slowed, but still did not reach a normal rate. My eyes, no longer held by his glance, shifted to my hands, which I found to be shaking.

I looked up again in time to see him jerk his masked head at three men in the crowd. They sprung into action, moving towards me as the Phantom stepped back to give them room.

Panic overwhelmed me and, afraid of what the men might do, I tried to push myself into the farthest corner of the cage. One of them crouched down and managed to grab me by the ankle, pulling me out backwards. I did not want to fight anymore, was practically incapable of doing so, but I would not make it easy for them. I went as limp as a rag doll, forcing the man to carry me as the Phantom led us into a nearby tent.

Inside, I was dropped onto a wooden box with a large stone sitting in front of it. An old Gypsy man with a beard was standing in the corner, smoking a pipe with one hand, swinging a hot poker with the other, and looking at me with interest. I stared right back.

The Phantom spoke to the man in tones I could not hear, then disappeared through the flap of the tent. Out of my sight now, he meant nothing to me and I looked to the old man to appeal for help.

"Can you speak to me?" I found it hard to believe that a group of people could be this far into France and not know any of the language, but no one would speak to me! The old man did not answer, merely raised an eyebrow when I spoke and continued to blow smoke rings that died in the roof of the canvas.

The old Gypsy waved his poker at the stone. When I did nothing, one of the young men moved in front of me and grasped my wrists. He pulled them over the stone, then separated them until the metal chains sat taunt as a bow string over the top of the stone.

I squeezed my eyes shut, expecting some kind of physical punishment, and none came. When I opened them, I saw the bearded man place the end of the poker in the blaze and keep it there, the metal glowing slightly in the heat. While he waited, he turned his head away from his task and winked at me. I had no time to react when the man holding my hands suddenly pulled them harder until I cried out in pain.

The pain passed and I opened my eyes. The bearded man was still at his task of heating the poker. Behind him sat an anvil with several horse-shoes laying around its base. The iron hub of a caravan wheel lay alongside a bucket of water. Everywhere I looked, there were fresh metal tools, or old ones in various states of brokenness, waiting to be fixed. The man was a blacksmith.

Though I understood this, it was not until the flaming end of the poker headed towards me that I realized what was happening. The bearded man pressed the tip of the poker into the keyhole of the lock on my chains, the metal glowing red at the contact. Within seconds, the lock popped open and fell on the ground.

Bracelets and chain fell in the dirt, and could rust away to nothing for all I cared. My wrists were red and blue with blood and bruises, but I was relieved. I rubbed one absently while the Gypsy put away his poker, setting it back in the fire. When he was done, he came closer to examine his work. He clucked his tongue when he saw the damage, then gave me an encouraging smile, and patted me on the shoulder.

He said something that sounded to me like, "Careful," but he left before I could call him back.

I rolled my right wrist to check its range of motion; perfect. Except for a slight soreness, it wasn't broken. The other was fine too. My stomach was upset and I felt slightly hot, but I was otherwise fine. Free from the cage and now my shackles, my mind was now open to wonder what these people –and my former tutor- would do.

I doubted he wanted much to do with me; I wanted less to do with him. The Gypsies, though, might want something. I had heard the horrible tales of thievery and black magic. Farmers that don't share their livestock with a traveling Gypsy tribe found their herds dead the next morning. Unbaptized babies were stolen from their cribs to become ingredients in black Gypsy potions. I tended to reject such extraordinary tales nowadays, but they seemed like very real possibilities now that I was their prisoner.

I was also penniless. The only wealth I had was Raoul's signet ring and the little cross Dika had given me. My gown, once worth a king's ransom, wouldn't fetch half a franc at a fair now. I was probably worth less then those wretched mongrels wondering the camp.

Days ago, I had been a wealthy, disgustingly so. Raoul's family was one of the richest in Europe and I had carried their name. I was also a wanted murder suspect.

If these people knew who I really was….

But they didn't, and I'd be damned if I let them find out.

_He_ knew. Maybe not recent events, but he certainly knew enough to turn a few heads with his knowledge.

Why, of all places, was he here?

I would need him as an ally now. My decision to abandon him that night after Don Juan had given me five quiet years with Raoul, so I had little regret over my actions. But revenge had been driving the Phantom I knew his whole life. I could not rely on any sympathy he may or may not carry for me to save my life, I did not have that luxury.

Dika peeked her head into the tent and waved at me. When she was close enough to see them, she examined my wrists, fascinated by the change. When she had her fill, her little face scrunched, and she looked as if she were building the strength to say something

"Masahj," she finally said. I hoped she did not expect me to know any of her words.

"Mesahj? What… oh message! You mean message? For me?" Dika nodded. "From whom?"

Dika put her hand across the right side of her face.

"From Erik? You have a message to me from Erik?" I did not know how she would give it to me; her French was nearly non-existent.

"Tawt word masahj," she said, concentrating fiercely on her words. "_Mulani_ waitig you en wooods."

* * *

**A/N:** Mulani: Gypsy word meaning 'ghost'.

Read and review, please.


	14. Hello, Old Friend

**Chapter #13**

**Hello, Old Friend **

_Breathe, just breath. He won't hurt you. Just breathe._

I repeated this little phrase over and over in my mind as Dika led me through the woods. She seemed to have taken up the task of teaching me to speak her language, and she pointed to various rocks and trees, repeating the Gypsy word for them and occasionally the little French she knew.

I was not paying attention. Aside from my impending meeting, the aches and pains from my journey were making simple tasks such as walking difficult. I was starving, and I was also feeling sick. The beginnings of a headache were starting to pulse between my eyes, and I wondered if I would be able to handle the most surreal experience of my life: re-meeting my Angel of Music.

At least that was who I thought I was meeting, if _Mulani _and the Phantom were one and the same.

We came to the edge of the forest, farmland and prairie stretching out on either side of me. In the distance, I could see the shoreline and a river that flowed out into the ocean. The water sang as it made its way towards freedom, and even the air seemed to still to listen.

Dika patted me on the arm reassuringly, then promptly disappeared the way she had come.

For the time being, I was completely alone. There was no one but me, surrounded by wilderness and water. I wondered if perhaps Dika had left me here as a way of saying her people wanted me to disappear. I would have complied if I was not certain I would be dead within days.

I knelt beside the river and looked down into the reflective shallows. That could not be me staring back! The wild-eyed woman in the water looked beyond death, hair frayed, and caked in blood…Where was the Comtess de Chagny? Panic seized me. I could not see _him_ again looking like this! I would not be a pitiful sight, least of all to him.

I cupped my hands, submerging them in the river. The cold water felt good on my wounded wrists, but I wasn't sure how much time I had, so I quickly withdrew them, bringing the handful of water to my face. I would have benefited from a washcloth and some soap as I tried to scrub my face clean. In addition to the blood and grime that coated my skin, I still had some make-up left from the party. My hair was mussed but still fairly manageable, and I thanked what ever deities still listened for my foresight to leave my hair loose; it would have been impossible to untangle a matted coiffure. My cheek was tender from where Clavell had struck me. My shoulder was starting to throb again, but I would have to ignore it for now. There was nothing I could do about my ragged dress, but at least now the figure in the water looked only battered, not entirely pathetic.

When I was satisfied with my appearance, I submerged my hands again; I was so thirsty. I brought my hands to my mouth and the coldness dropped to the bottom of my stomach. I did it again, and again, until my hands were numb and my stomach full.

Where was _Mulani_ or whatever the hell he called himself now, anyway? If this was fate, then God had some kind of sick sense of humor. I did not want to see this man ever again, I wanted my husband. I wanted Raoul, and the wanting was eating at me inside.

I could not think about that now. Later, when I had some clearer view of my future, I would lose myself in my grief. When that time came, I knew I might never emerge, but I could not do it now. When I finally looked up, I saw a figure farther down the shore, closer to the ocean.

The Phantom had his back to me, watching the water. Before, I had had mere seconds to look at him, but now, free to look without the barrier of the cage between us, I was amazed to see how much he had truly changed. He really was larger then the last time I had seen him; He had filled out, now processing the lean build of a thin man instead of the emaciation of a starved skeleton.

As I moved towards him, one hand extended, the other clutching my tattered skirts in fear, I had the strongest sense of déjà vu. I could have been the young ingénue again, seeking a living embodiment of her father's stories, caught somewhere between cold reality and the twisted fantasy of my mind. I did not dare speak, nor breathe for fear of shattering it.

He turned and the spell was broken. I saw the fullness of his years outside of the cellars of the Opéra. I had never been able to look into his eyes without being overwhelmed by the rage and sadness reflected within. Now, they were calm, clear, no less menacing, but far more focused. The visible skin of his arms, shoulders, and neck were kissed by the sun, killing the ghostly aura that he had worn so long. I remembered his hair slicked to perfection over his skull; now it was loose, hanging in elegant waves reaching nearly to his shoulders. The jet-black now contained streaks of rich brown, and silver. None of my efforts kneeling at the river bank could have made me a presentable sight for the man I now saw before me.

For a moment, I supposed we both had been struck dumb by the memories of our time together, the long years apart, and now seeing what those years had done to us both. It could not last forever, and once the shock was gone, it lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. I knew I would have to be the first one to speak, but I could think of nothing appropriate.

"_How have you been? Still carrying that lasso?"_

The silence grew, and I, unable to think of anything to say, shifted awkwardly between my feet. Despite my best efforts at the river, I knew the sight of me was at the least interesting, at the most disturbing. What I could not understand was why he was looking at me as if he had never seen me before. There was no hostility, no pity, but there was no damn recognition either.

I sure as hell remembered him!

"Are we near La Trinité?" I asked at last, venturing a guess for our location. It was a random town I had heard of, close to Brest and a short distance from the sea. It would be a relief to know where I was, but if I was near La Trinité, I was not out of Clavell's shadow yet.

Erik did not answer. Birds were calling all around us. I could still hear the activity of the Gypsies in the distance and the roar of the distant sea. Everything seemed to be in communication but _us_.

"Would you bloody say something?!" The corner of his mouth turned up, but still nothing.

So, this was how he was going to act! I planted both my feet on the ground and looked him squarely in the eye. If he was going to act like _this_, I would have none of it! I was not his student anymore, nor a naïve little child, and I had been through too much recently to allow myself to be pulled into his weird mind games.

"Fine. If you do not even have the decency to say _something_, you can go hang for all I care!" I inwardly flinched at my choice of words, but I acted as if it was exactly what I wanted to say.

I stomped off in a random direction; I did not care where I went so long as I made a dramatic exit. I thought to find the spot of bank where I had cleaned myself, then head back in the direction Dika had led me from. This plan was swiftly abandoned: Every inch of riverbank looked exactly the same. When I thought I saw a familiar rock, there was one not far from it that looked identical. My only choice was to return to the Gypsy camp, or else wander back into Clavell's hands, as I had no idea which direction would lead to where. When I turned to see if he was laughing at me, the Phantom was not there.

Over seven years and he was still up to his old tricks.

"Jerk," I said out loud and headed back towards the caravans. I would find him eventually, and if he would not help me, at least he could point me towards someone that would.

I followed the sounds back to the Gypsy camp. By now, it was early evening. Several fires now lit up the camp, and the smell of meat and garlic cooking reminded me that I had eaten nothing but stale bread and cheese for days now. I tried entreating several people as to _Mulani's _location, but I either received blank stares, or was ignored completely. Several laughed at my poor attempts at their language, but most fled from my presence as if I wore the marks of a leper.

Those that did not avoid me, though, were the horses. Everywhere I went, gorgeous horses were left to roam free. I saw many drift off into the forest, but no one seemed to mind them. If anyone encountered them, the gypsy treated the beast with the same respect afforded a precious child. All of them were magnificent animals, and it was clear they were cared for well; I could hardly get anyone to look at me.

The same woman that had given me the bread and cheese spotted me wandering aimlessly between tents and caravans and waved me over to her hearth. She approached me, slowly, and handed me a bowl of stew. I wanted more then anything to eat it, but this was the first person, besides the little girl, who was willing to approach to me. I took a deep breath and decided to try one last time.

"Mulani?" I said, stumbling over the unfamiliar word.

The woman did not laugh, but she did look as though I had coughed. I put my hand over my face like Dika had and tried again.

"Mulani?"

Her eyes lit up, "_Mu_lani!"

"Yes, him. Where is he?"

She waved her hand towards one side of the camp. Giving back the bowl, I thanked her and headed in that direction. The terrain they had decided to camp in was somewhat rocky and I had to watch my footing in case I fell.

I did not have to go far. I turned round the corner of a group of tents and saw the only one that could possibly belong to the man called _Mulani_.

My brief time with the Gypsies had shown me their love of vibrant colors. Clothes and caravans were painted festive hues; this tent was pitch black. It had the familiar circular shape this tribe of gypsies seemed to favor, but this particular one was much taller. It was also a good distance away from the other tents, enough to lessen the chance of unwelcome visitors.

Unwelcome or not, I headed towards the tent, but stopped when the man I was looking for came out… followed by a woman.

It seemed my tortured tutor had not been lonely in these seven years. The woman was speaking to him in her native tongue and the Phantom responded only in gestures: a nod here or a wave of his hand there. The woman said something more, and he turned and leaned with his arms crossed casually against one of the caravans. The woman stood a hairsbreadth away, smiling coyly and twisting a strand of her luxuriant, dark hair. Even at this distance, I could see her full lips, dimpled chin, and dark eyes. Even if I could hear what they were saying, I doubted that I would understand the words, but her body language said enough: Her hips cocked towards him, her generous chest leaning just slightly forward, enough to entice.

She laughed at something and clutched her hand to her throat as if she were overcome with amusement. The hand trailed down her shapely neck, over the bones where her chest began, and down to the soft mound underneath.

I had seen enough. The last thing they needed during that vulgar mating dance was a spectator. I turned on my heel, resolute that I would find someone else to help me.

I turned to leave, but my body moved more quickly than my feet, and I lost my balance. As I fell forward, my left shoulder connected with the ground first, leaving me lost in a flash of blinding pain. I managed to roll onto my back, making strangled sounds somewhere between curses and sobs. Even if I was able to speak in that moment, words would not have been enough.

I clutched at the wound and rolled from side to side trying to will it to stop. I heard a voice above me and for a moment, I was struck by the ethereal beauty of it. I opened my eyes, blurry with angry tears, and saw the Phantom hovering above me.

"What's wrong?" he asked. I closed my eyes, rolling to my right side and moaning. "Answer me; I know you can."

I knew I could too, I just did not want to. I pointed to my shoulder and moaned, "Bullet," then refused to say anything more.

"Bullet?!" he asked, and I nodded. His hand hovered over the area hidden beneath my hand and clothes as if he were sensing where I was shot.

"May I?" I nodded again and the lace shield of my once beautiful ball gown was torn open.

I had never seen a bullet wound before, much less my own. The bullet had entered near the flesh of my upper breast, and traveled through my body before lodging itself near my shoulder. An angry red ring circled the entry wound, and red tracks marked its journey into my shoulder. The area was puffy, sweet-smelling, and painful. Several purple bruises blossomed along the wound and what was not red was a sickening wax-like white.

He touched the bump where the bullet lay beneath my skin and I screamed.

"What do you think you're doing?! Leave it alone!"

I did not faze him.

"Christine, your wound is becoming infected. I will have to remove the bullet. Do you think you can handle it?"

I knew I did not have a choice.

A part of me was still smarting from our rude meeting before, but I let him carry me into a nearby tent. It was not his own: I knew immediately from the signs of family life that he had not brought me into the black one. A small fire burned near the entrance of the tent, and dolls and tiny clothes were scattered everywhere. Unless my Phantom had changed quite dramatically in the last several years, he was no family man.

He lay me on something soft, then left through the entrance of the tent. When he came back, he carried a box in one hand, and an ornate dagger in the other. A craggy old woman followed behind, bent so far over from age, she could easily touch her toes. Her iron-gray hair was secured behind a purple head-scarf and only a few wispy strands fell over her wrinkled face. She held a metal urn in her hand, with thin flames leaping from its mouth.

Erik placed the box near my head and the old woman placed the urn near it. The woman bent over me to see my wound, and clucked her tongue disapprovingly. She took the bodice of my dress in both hands, and tore until I was in nothing but my corset and chemise. I tried to cover myself, embarrassed to be so exposed in front of anyone, let alone Erik, but she slapped my wrists with a firm, "No!" From the box, she removed a small bag, and dumped the powdery contents into her hand.

She said, "_Pani_!" and Erik handed her a jug of water. She dipped her free hand in and sprinkled the water on the other. She rubbed the two together until she created a thick, green salve.

One bony finger, covered in the salve, came towards me. I looked to Erik, but he was as still as a ghost. The old woman spread the salve across my shoulder, from my bullet wound, to the bullet. I felt the skin begin to bubble, and I tried to roll away from her.

The old woman clucked her tongue again, and placed her gnarled hands on me. This time Erik did move: he lifted the ornate dagger, and stuck the end of it into the burning urn. A strand of jet black fell across the harsh lines of his mask, and not for the first time, I wished I had a way to read his face and know what he was thinking. When he raised the knife from the flames, it was glowing red.

I suddenly realized what was happening. I tried to struggle, but the old woman had an amazing amount of strength. She whispered to me soothingly in her language, but it did nothing to quell the panic that rose in me as Erik brought that burning dagger near my breast.

He paused, just above the wound and I thought he might have smiled. His eyes burned in the dark, terrifying, beautiful, so utterly like the demented madman I had known. I held my breath as the blade kissed my skin, and as I started to scream, I heard him snarl:

"Welcome to the world of the Gypsies, Madame."

* * *

_**A/N:** __Little side note, a few people mentioned Erik's perspective on this story. Just to clarify, I am planning some on- shots later on. However, if I were to post them now, it would give away some vital information to be reveled later in the story. It is coming, just not for a while._

_Thanks to those who regularly review. Everyone else, I have a killer rabbit. Don't make me set him free._


	15. Open Wound

**Chapter#14**

**Open Wound**

My mind abandoned me to the mercy of a drug-induced haze of Gypsy potion. I spent my waking moments longing for what I had lost, and in my dreams, I was trapped in that horrible moment when I knew my life would forever be one of longing… Raoul dead. I, alive. It seemed wholly cruel and unreal.

There were moments, though of utter clarity. At first I wanted nothing to do with them, simply to slip back into a dream world of limitless possibility in my own mind. But it was not possible, and eventually, I began to accept what I already knew.

I was alone. And for the moment, I was utterly helpless.

I was no longer a prisoner of the Gypsies; now I was a distrusted guest. I rode in the back of a Gypsy caravan alone, and watched the forests of Brittany slowly pass by through a small window on the wall, as we headed north. I could just see the fresh colors of summer, almost feel the blues and whites that only existent when the sun was ripe in the sky. I could weep for joy knowing winter was banished, and life remained. For I was alive and there was joy enough in that.

The Gypsy spirit was blending into my soul, my eyes were filled with color and my ears with song. Under the layers of melody and word, music breathes identity, and I was beginning to know that of the Gypsies. Music, like the sun, returned to me. I heard the light innocent strains of a child's voice lulling me through the daylight hours. At night, I heard the distant sounds of drums and laughter, curling seductively in the darkness.

"_These are my ways, the wandering path, the lovers' lot, the cast-offs bane. And though my heart lies far away, I know I can never go home again_."

Not even I had the imagination to create such beautiful music. But even as it was a relief, it was also a reminder of what I'd lost. I'd given up my music many years ago, when I walked away from the Opera, and those were memories that I did not care to revisit. Now, here, in the back of a caravan headed God knew where, I realized that I had lost more than just a bullet during that crude operation under Erik's knife: I had lost my dignity.

When Erik's knife slit my flesh, they had to gag me to stop my screaming.

After I showed no signs of calming, Erik called in two men, instructing one to hold my legs, another to hold my arms. I felt as though my blood was crawling up my arm, sending white-hot misery coursing through me. One of the men held my wrists with his meaty hands, and the other settled on my knees and pressed them down.

"These men are going to hold you while I dig the bullet out." Erik said, as if what he was about to attempt were the most natural thing in the world. "Try not to fight them; you'll only hurt yourself more. Scream all you want, but try not to move." I knew that timbre of his voice. Those soft, melodious speaking tones had been the only thing that could calm me before a performance at the Garnier. Not now. Even Erik's heavenly voice was painful in my ears. It was too loud, echoing in the caverns of my mind. I tried to raise my hand to swat it away, but it only made my arm hurt more.

Something delicate brushed against my cheek, so light that I almost didn't notice its presence. It was cold against my skin, and I thought for a moment that it might be my own tears. I turned my head towards it and it was gone, a fading blur at the edge of my vision, something pale that looked almost like fingers.

The initial incision already made, Erik gently parted my flesh to see the extent of the damage. My jaw clenched down on my gag until my mouth was filled with the taste of blood and leather. The old woman was still kneeling at my side. Leaning over me, she made another disapproving 'click' with her tongue, and reached toward the wound. I sucked in a harsh breath between my teeth as her hand peeled a bit of blood-soaked lace from where it had been buried in my shoulder. Through my haze, I recognized it as part of the beautiful trimming of my ruined bodice.

I was sweating bullets. My blood was roaring in my ears and I felt my heart pounding in my throat. I tried screaming again, but every movement made my arm throb. I shut my eyes, willing it away, and it passed, but the heat of it still remained.

"It's not bad," I heard Erik say. "She must have been shot at a distance, her insides are not torn, but this wound is days old."

The old woman loosened the gag, and asked, "When were you hurt, girl?"

I had been holding my breath. I let it out in a huge rush and opened my eyes. The woman's aged face filled my vision, and I noticed tiny tattoos on her temples, disappearing into the iron-grey of her hair. I swallowed several times and but there was no more moisture in my throat.

"You speak French?" I rasped. She smiled.

"Of course I do! I just don't speak it to _gadjís_." She put her hand on my forehead and it was like ice. "We need to know when you were hurt."

The truth was that I didn't know. The time between when I was shot and coming here was so blurred that it could have been days, it could have been weeks. I closed my eyes again and turned my head away. I hadn't the strength to explain myself now.

"She doesn't know, hold her." My eyes flew open at the steel in Erik's voice and when I did, I saw he held the nastiest looking bit of metal I had ever seen. It looked like a small sword with a pin-thin blade, metal square, and a U-shaped handle on the end. The mask on his face made him seen even less human, and for the first time I noticed a thin, pink scar running under the curve of his lip, disappearing beneath the flesh colored kid-skin. I was struck by the thought that his new façade was an outward expression of an immense personal transformation, and fear seeped into my soul.

He nodded to the men, and they pressed my wrists and legs more firmly into the ground. Someone was muttering in my ear. It was not Erik: it lacked any beauty and was too low and too gruff. It must have been the man holding my wrists. I knew his words had meaning, the way you know random conversations in a crowd make sense to the ones speaking. I could not understand them, but they soothed me.

If hell itself had opened and yawned before me in all its hideous glory, I would have gladly thrown myself into the depths to rid myself of this. My mind and body froze as the horrible instrument invaded me, probing natural muscle and bone for the foreign bullet. I bit down again, but since I no longer had a gag, I tore my own tongue. The blood smelled sweet and coppery in my mouth, it was a distraction from the pain in my arm, and I welcomed it.

It was over in seconds. The bullet was dug out and Erik handed it and the instrument to the old woman. He picked up the knife, which had been sitting in the flames, and made several smaller cuts. I whimpered as each swipe of his knife took more of my skin, making small mews of pain that meant nothing to him.

The old woman held out one gnarled claw at one of the men. "Franko, give me your flask."

"I'm not giving it to you! That's good whiskey in it! Nearly got caught stealing it, too."

"Give it to me now! I need to clean and stitch the wound."

The old woman's tone left no room for arguing. Reluctantly, Franko handed her a metal flask. The old woman took it and poured the contents onto a rag. Whiskey overpowered the scent of my blood until the old woman took the rag, and pressed it into my wound.

It burned! It stung! It was eating my skin! The men had loosened their hold after the worst of the operation, so there was very little to keep me from wiggling away. In the back of my mind I knew what she was doing was meant to save my life, but I could no more endure that feeling than I could another bullet in my body.

"Hold her!" someone shouted

One of the men pinned me to the ground, while the other, again, held my feet. All of my pitiful attempts at fighting back in the past had failed miserably and this was no exception, but I did anyway. They rolled me onto my undamaged shoulder and held me immobile. My face was shoved into the ground and at that moment, the only thing I could see…was Erik. Next to him, _was that young woman_.

I didn't know why I did it, later I would blame the overall insanity of the situation. I gave former O.G. the biggest grin I could manage, then I mouthed, "I hate you," as clearly as possible. And I did. I hated him more than anything at that moment. It was totally irrational and unfounded, but I did. Erik had been on the receiving end of my hate, but never my smiles and I could tell it unnerved him. Pity, I thought before the old women knelt beside me and blocked my view of him. The last thing I saw was the old woman covering my mouth with another rag, this one smelling of chloroform.

When I next awoke, my arm was wrapped tightly to my chest, and my body felt heavy, as if I could melt through the floor and sink deep down into the earth. I was alone and lying on several furs, with an empty water basin beside me. A small, rectangular window was just out of arms reach above me, and the light streaming through was occasionally obscured by something outside. A cage here, blankets there, a doll or two among a workman's tools, odd bits of family life surrounded me on all sides. With great effort I sat up. I was in a long, narrow room that occasionally swayed and bounced. I used my chin to part the remains of my dress, and saw ugly, black stitches surrounded by my angry red flesh. They itched. I brought my undamaged hand to the wound to soothe it, but the area was sensitive to even the slightest outside touch.

As I watched the pots, pans, and other tools nailed to the wall sway, I felt my stomach twist. I leaned over the water basin just in time to see anything I had ever eaten spill out of me.

I kept retching until there was nothing left. My body seemed determined to expel my own stomach. Every heave emitted a horrible gag that brought tears to my eyes. I couldn't stop!

"Aishe, she's awake! She's hurting herself!" An older, mature voice sounded behind me, but I could not look up. "What's wrong with her?"

"She'll be alright. He said she might be sick when she woke up. She needs to sleep so the treatment can work its way out of her. Here, help me hold her."

Tiny hands took hold of my shoulders. They pulled me back until I was face to face with an incredibly beautiful young woman. I knew that I should recognize her, but thinking was too difficult. The young woman poured the contents of a small vial down my throat that made me gag again, but it finally went smoothly down my throat.

My stomach calmed and so did I. In fact, I could feel a welcoming darkness enveloping me, dragging my weak mind back into a dreamy oblivion.

Time went on, my body grew stronger, my wound healed, and eventually the vial that eased my suffering was no longer necessary. My mind became my own again and slowly, I began to learn the intricacies of this Gypsy world I was now a part of.

Dika's family were my care-takers. They fed me, cleaned me, and cared for me, but they always did so at a distance. Dika took it upon herself to keep me company whenever she was not doing her chores. She was not fluent enough in French to have a conversation, but in her short life of wandering the countryside, she had learned the sound of many folk songs, in every language from Gaelic and French to Spanish and English. There was a purity and control to her voice that many women simply never possess. I asked her to sing for me a million times, and she always willingly obliged.

The party of the caravan consisted of Dika, her two brothers, Calmo and Tas, an infant sister name Chavali, a father and mother named Jal and Djano… and then there was Aishe. Aishe, beautiful Aishe with her deep eyes and bright skin, was responsible for care of my wound. Her face still held the slightest trace of baby fat around her cheeks, displaying freshness only found to those under eighteen, but she showed promise of becoming an even greater beauty in adulthood. She wore her hair in the same way as Dika, with two thick braids hanging in front of a colorful kerchief. I suspected it meant "unmarried" because Dika's mother's never wore her hair like that. Every few hours, Aishe would replace the bandages on my shoulder, and cover the wound with a cool salve. She did it with the utmost care and tenderness, asking if she was ever rough, yet I still did not like her.

She had been the woman I had seen seducing Erik moments before I fell, and again by his side during my surgery.

"You must get up," she said to me one day. I had been eager to move from my bed for a while, but I did not want to get up just because she told me too.

"Why?" I asked.

"We are going to the lake," she said, "to wash."

I almost said no. I almost screamed at her that I did not want any more of her help, but the though of a bath, to finally rid myself of grime and feel human again, was too tempting to pass.

I was still sore, but by no means weak, thanks to Jal's cooking. Aishe and Jal helped me out of the caravan and waited patiently while I found my feet. It had to have been a week since I stood on my own. A crowd was heading off into the woods; There were no men, save small boys, and everyone carried baskets of clothes and towels on their shoulders. Aishe looped her arm around my shoulder and fell in step with the other women.

The troupe had left the sea far behind, and the many lakes and rivers dotting the countryside became the primary source of water. The one Aishe and Jal took me to was well-hidden behind fir trees, bathed in the glow of summer sunlight with only the passing river for entrance, perfect for privacy.

Before I blushed, I laughed. I saw nothing but joy and absolute confidence among the children laughing, mother's working, and women bathing. Mothers stood knee-deep in water, using one hand to wash their child and the other to hold them still. Very few were fully clothed and no one, save me, seemed to care.

The old woman whom had helped Erik was prowling the lake shore garnishing a large wooden spoon and watching the trees. I was somewhat fearful she might use the thing on me.

"Is she lost?"

"No," Jal answered me, "she is watching for the men. She punish men if they peek."

Jal left us to speak to several women sitting under a tree. I felt hands touch my back and my answering shriek stopped all activity for the moment.

"Keep quiet," Aishe hissed, "no one wants you here already, don't make it worse."

I really did not like her and neither did I like the thought of bathing with people who had nothing but contempt for me. It reminded me a bit of Paris during the early days of my marriage.

Skirts and blouses were lying in the grass, along with towels, waiting for someone to fill them. The women in the lake paid no heed to each other's nakedness and continued about their business as if nudity was the most natural thing in the world.

I felt those little hands again at my back and I immediately spun away from them. Dika laughed at me, and then marched determinedly towards me. I backed up until I was at the water's edge and held up my good arm to stop her.

"What are you doing?" I demanded, knowing she could not answer me.

She stopped advancing and looked to Aishe for help.

Aishe sighed. "You need to bathe. You will get sick if you don't."

Of course. I had not bathed since the night of the party, and that had been days ago. Erik and the old woman had left me in the tattered remains of my clothes, all that left were my undergarments I was filthy, any bath would be a welcome relief, but I could not shed my clothes with the same abandonment as these women did. I simply did not have the courage.

I did not have much of a choice, though, either.

Aishe, stepped towards me and with a quick, "You will be fine," proceeded to help me undress.

What was left of my ball gown, Aishe threw over her shoulder, never to be seen again. I stood in nothing but my sling and necklace with the cross and Raoul's signet ring… Dika and several other Gypsy women near us giggled at the sight of my body; a life under the sun, free of the constraints of high-fashion corsets, produced a different female body than my own. Dika put her little hands on my stomach and marvel at the contrast of pale white and rich olive.

Once I was undressed, oddly, I did not feel so self-conscious anymore. The worst was over. The other women had no problem in their skin, so I did not see why I should either. I was vastly aware of the differences between me and the free curves of these women, but there were no men around, after all.

Most of the other women were either already in the water, or farther down the bank. Aishe stripped down too and, leaving Dika on dry land, led me out into the water. It was colder than I had expected, and I started to shiver. I became more used to it as Aishe led me farther out into the lake.

Once we were about waist deep in water, Aishe dove under the surface. I remained above, shivering, wondering if I had been abandoned to brave lake monsters by myself. I desperately wanted to do as the young woman had, and submerge myself completely underwater till I was cleaner than air. But the constant itch in my shoulder was message enough I did not have the luxury of such freedom.

Aishe emerged seconds later.

"Are you waiting for something?" she asked wiping the lake water from her eyes.

"No, but I do not see how this is possible."

She laughed. "He said you had a bit of a pampered background. You don't know how to wash yourself?"

I had no doubt whom she was referring to.

"Did he?" I asked, not bothering to hide my anger. "Did _he_ say anything else?"

"He said that you could wash, so long as you kept the wound dry. Even if it gets a little wet, it won't kill you."

What did she know about death? The girl had the face of a budding cherub, I doubt she knew no more about death than what she had heard in her silly Gypsy stories.

"Look, I'm here to help you…" I took a step back. "If you want it. If you want, I can hold your hands so you can dip your hair in the water. I promise no more touching than that."

Sounded reasonable. Still, I didn't want her help, not even for this.

"No thank you, girl, I'll manage by myself."

My God, when had I started to sound like Carlotta?

"My name is Aishe."

If my father could have seen me, or Madame Giry, they would have been appalled at my behavior. Right now I didn't give a damn. I ignored her and moved as far away from her as I could without returning to shallow water.

It was difficult and awkward, but I managed. I bent my knees until the water line was just below my shoulders, then tilted my head as far right as I could without toppling over. I ran my free hand through the tangled mess of my hair, using the wounded arm to keep my balance. Aishe watched me with a slight grin on her face, and let me be.

It was modest and by no means was I as clean as I was used to being with the help of my handmaids, but it felt wonderful. I was still in a great deal of pain, but the water was heavenly. Finally free of the filth I had worn for days, I felt like a new person.

When I was done, Aishe took my arm and led me back to the shore. Dika had a fresh set of clothes for me: a loose, blue, pleated skirt with several layers underneath and a billowy white top. Aishe's clothes were far more adventurous, displaying a near indecent amount of flesh while mine, while far more modest, showed more skin then I was used to. The corset tied in the front and did not allow for tight lacing. While it was firm, I could breathe more easily than I had in my old clothes. Aishe helped me dry using one towel for my upper body and another for my lower, and did so without uttering a word.

My hair was heavy and hanging in thick, wet tendrils down my back. Together with Dika, the two of them tied the hair near my temples in two, thick braids hanging down the front of my body. The rest hung down my back, drying slowly in the summer air.

Dika was straightening my shirt, when a horse burst from the brush, with an unfortunate young man bouncing helplessly on top.

"Look out!" he called pathetically. The entire group of remaining Gypsy women scattered, some grabbing their small children seconds before the wild horse could crush them. Several men soon followed, all yelling in a futile attempt to stop the horse and save the rider.

Dika, Aishe and I were all safely out of the beast's path: I had no reason to go anywhere as the men tried their best to calm this magnificent, white-gray horse. Yet I stood, and ignored all hysteric warnings from Aishe and Dika as I made my way towards the commotion.

And when I was no more than an arms length from the wild, bucking, beast, I breathed a name I thought I would never speak again.

"Averroës!"

* * *

**A/N:** _Medical information was provided by my brother, even though he didn't know what it was for._

_I don't own Phantom, not mine, nor will it ever be._

_And don't forget to leave a review!_


	16. To Be a Maiden Once Again

**Chapter #15**

**To Be a Maiden Once Again**

There was no doubt in my mind: it was Averroës.

Shocked as I was to see him, I still had the presence of mind to call him again. At the sound of his name, the horse stopped. The young rider that had been hanging on for his life, slid off the horse's back and stumbled into the arms of an elderly Gypsy mother folding laundry by the side of the lake. The majority of the women had already run back to the camp; the few remaining clamored to the young man, all petting and whispering soothing words to him while he descended into shock.

With everyone's attention now on the rider, I started to move towards my horse. My joy at seeing him again made me nearly deaf to Aishe's calls for me to stop, not noticing them until I felt a tiny hand grasp my arm and attempt to pull me back. I turned away from the horse for a moment, and found Dika fastened to the other end of my arm, her arms wrapped tightly around my wrists. Her expression said very clearly that she wasn't about to let go.

"Leave me!" I demanded, trying to shake her off. She was surprisingly strong for a child.

I called his name again and again until Averroës heard and trotted towards us. The horse circled the two of us once, twice before nickering in an apparent show of greeting. I extended my free hand, palm up and waited. If he did not recognize me I could at least show him that I was friendly.

Averroës approached my hand, slowly, and sniffed it. Any doubts I still harbored as to his identity vanished when he shoved his nose passed my hand and smacked me in the face.

In the distance, I thought I heard Aishe laughing as my rear connected with the ground.

"Wonderful to see you too," I said, rubbing my nose and trying to find my feet again.

Dika had let go of me moments before I fell. Now she stared at the horse wide-eyed in wonder. I didn't blame her; he was a magnificent animal. I found it odd a gypsy child would be afraid of any horse, let alone Averroës, though after the entrance he had made, I could understand her apprehension.

"It's alright, Dika, he won't harm you."

To prove this, I took the braided Gypsy bridle and guided Averroës' head until it was low enough for her to touch. The child hesitated, then mustering up her courage, raised her hand.

Just as she was a hair's breath from his velvet nose, Dika was pulled away by none other than Aishe.

The child struggled but stopped when Aishe whispered something in her ear. Without another word, Dika waved good-bye to me and joined women who were carrying the young man back to the camp.

"You did not have to do that; the horse would not have hurt her."

In all my remembered time with the Gypsies, I could not recall a time I had ever been alone with Aishe. Daily care for my shoulder was always done with at least Jal and Dika to support me while the young woman worked. She was a capable healer, yet I only paid attention to her when I had to; call it contempt for a caretaker several years my junior. But my opinion of her did not improve now that I finally had a chance to study her.

Two water stains spread over Aishe's shirt from where her wet braids hung over her shoulders, reaching down to her waist and curling beautifully at the ends. She stood several inches above my modest height and had her arms crossed in such a way that I had seen mothers use to scold their children.

I would guess she was fifteen years old, at the most sixteen. Her face held so much youthful beauty, she practically glowed. Any radiance I ever possessed had been winnowed out with both time and disappointment. She was not far from the age I had been when I first met Erik, but there was something far more compelling and mature about her than I had ever been. The sheltering arms of my father and the walls of the Garnier had turned me into the perfect wide-eyed ingénue until that moment when I had to decide between two men in my life. Not Aishe- independent, alive, and raised in the harsh existence of a Gypsy: I felt as if I was looking at a young goddess in the beginning stages of realizing her power.

"Aishe… how old are you?"

"Seventeen," she said, putting both hands on her hips. "You think this is too old to be unmarried? Well, no one wants an orphan. No matter, he is teaching and I am learning."

"He? You mean Erik?"

"Erik?" There was no recognition in her eyes at the sound of his name and I felt my pride grow several sizes larger. No matter what present situation he shared with this girl, Erik's past was something only I knew about, or had been a part of. The knowledge warmed me.

"The man in the mask," I clarified "_Mulani_. Do you know where he is?"

Her lovely face grew even more beautiful as understanding bloomed. "Oh! No, no I have not."

"Would anyone else know?"

Aishe shrugged. "He disappears. We never ask were he goes and he'll never tell. If your arm hurts, I can help you."

"No. It's not that." My hand once again found Averroës' velvet nose and I leaned into his neck until all I saw was the ghostly white of his coat. Now that I was healing, I supposed there was no need to see _him_. Still, curiosity was my Achilles heel and there were many questions I had about the course of his life since leaving the Opera.

"Maybe we should go back," I said finally, stepping away from the horse. Aishe agreed. I still had not had my bandages reset and all of Aishe's equipment was in the caravan.

She moved for the bridle still clutched in my hand, but I yanked it out of her reach; I did not know the Gypsy policy on ownership, but they had stolen Averroës from my husband and I. I felt that entitled me to his possession. While I still had breath in my body, I would never let anyone take him from me ever again.

"You are not a Gypsy woman, so believe that this is merely a friendly warning: Brishen has spent many hours on this horse. I promise that he will not let this… Averroës go easily." Her statement was so shockingly forward, it took me several moments to realize it was an honest threat.

Half-veiled truths and underlying motives had been a staple of my life as a noblewoman, so much so that reality often seemed obscure or unnatural. I tried responding with the same intensity… "Be that as it may, Aishe. I still would prefer to keep him close until I can speak with the 'owner'." …but failed miserably.

"Suit yourself, but do not say I didn't warn you."

She whirled around and walked off along the bank towards the path. I tried tugging on Averroës' bridle to get him moving, but he would not budge. I did it again and thought I heard the sound of a whistle. I had no time to consider it, though, when Averroës feet seemed to suddenly unglue, and he took off into the brush.

My hand was still wrapped in the bridle. As Averroës moved, so did I. He was not moving very fast, but I was caught at an awkward angle, sideways while Averroës trotted straight and true towards his destination.

"Averroës! Averroës, stop!" I cried, fearful that I would loose my own hand.

And then, suddenly, he did stop.

My knees buckled under the shock and I collapsed next to his great body with my poor hand suspended in air still tangled in the bridle. I closed my eyes and wondered what could possibly happen to me next, when I was joined by a familiar stranger.

"He's a fine horse…yours?" Erik's flesh-colored mask stared down at me over Averroës' back and I detected a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Are you hurt?"

I did not think so; my attention was not exactly on myself at the moment. My injured shoulder was not the side tangled in the reigns, but I could not lean on it to stand up. Using the leverage of my trapped hand, I scrambled to my feet as best I could and tried freeing myself from the bridle. Panic and embarrassment made it nearly impossible, and I felt my cheeks burn as time stretched and I was still tangled in Averroës' bridle.

"Allow me." I had wrapped the braided material around my hand several times. With the sudden canter of the horse pulling on both my hand and the material, a knot had formed below my knuckles, pressing my fingers together painfully. With a few clever pulls from Erik, the knot loosened, and I was free.

I flexed my hand to make sure it was not broken, when Aishe suddenly came tearing through the brush. When she saw me standing near the horse, she started to move towards the both of us, until she caught sight of Erik.

Neither said a word, yet something passed between them. She nodded, and giving me one last look, turned around, and disappeared.

He took my hand and held it up to the light. There was redness from the bridle, but apart from a small burning, I felt fine. Erik traced the lines of my bones from my wrist to the tips of my finger, manipulating the digits to check their range of motion. I wondered, briefly, when in his life he had learned to touch so easily. Perhaps I didn't want to know. Even if he had become comfortable with simple human interaction, his touch was still deathly cold.

"Nothing is broken," he raised his eyes to meet mine and the visible corner of his mouth briefly turned up. "I do not think I will have to cut it off."

I gasped and yanked my arm out of his grasp.

"You wouldn't!" I cradled my arm against my chest. The movement strained my shoulder and I felt my skin pulling at my stitches, but I ignored it. There was no telling what this man was capable of.

"Relax, Madame. I meant no offense. If it will make you feel better, I'll remove myself to where I cannot reach you." He turned and walked over to the closest tree. Crossing his arms over his chest, he leaned against the great trunk and fixed me with a pointed look. "Is this more to your liking?"

I did not like the way this was going, not at all. I had hoped to meet him on equal grounds now that I was indeed a woman, but he still made me feel like I was in infant's clothes.

"You called him… Averroës?" I nodded. "A fine name for a horse. You seem to know him."

"Erik…please…"

Please what? I did not know what I was asking. I did not even know what I was doing.

"Come," he said, moving towards me and taking up Averroës' reins. "We'll talk in a more private setting."

Moving, always moving. I followed Erik through the brush until we came to a small clearing looking out onto the lake. An ancient willow leaned out over the water with branches twisting in all direction to create a perfect canopy of total seclusion. Lake grass and weeds grew in clumps on the bank, and reeds in the water. The branches swayed with the breeze and soft summer sunlight fell through the leaves. If I looked beyond the green curtain, I could see the shore where Aishe had taken me to bathe.

Several of the willow's large branches were low enough for me to sit comfortably. I found a spot and sat down, arranging my skirts to cover as much of my legs as possible. My hair was still damp and the braids at my temples hung down nearly to my lap. I knew I looked better than I had in that cage; still, I could only imagine what Erik thought of me dressed as I was as a Gypsy.

Erik let go of the horse's bridled and Averroës gravitated towards the water. Once the horse dropped its nose near the water to drink, Erik came to stand in front of me. He motioned at my shoulder.

"May I?"

At my nod, he pulled on the bow on my collar around my neck. My shirt was loose and billowy, more comfortable than anything I had ever worn before, and when Erik pulled back the collar, it revealed much more than just my wound.

If I looked down, I could see pale, exposed flesh. I did not have the luxury of layers of silk and lace, it was only me. The simple undergarments covered the essentials, but the top of my breasts was on display for Erik's eyes. He had seen much more of me that night, when the old woman tore away my ball-gown to save my life, but this felt far more personal than that encounter in the tent.

We were completely alone. I could feel his breath on my face. His eyes were close enough for me to detect the different shades of yellow that made them glow. My heart beat wildly against my chest and I was sure he could hear it, but he paid it little attention as he examined the wound.

It was sore, but it was healing. The smell was gone, and the only redness remaining surrounded the stitches sewn into my skin. Ugly, purple bruises bordered it on all sides, but it was better than what I remembered seeing through the haze of Gypsy potion.

"Your little run with Averroës irritated it. I apologize for that, but do not be in a position to let it happen again." He turned away for a moment, and appeared to be considering something, before speaking again. "I need to remove the stitches, do you think you can handle it?"

If it would rid me of the itch I had carried for nearly a week, I would endure anything. At my nod, he produced a small, thin knife, nearly twice the length of my index finger, and just as broad. He handed me a piece of leather, instructing me to bite down on it, then began his work.

One cut, two cuts; they were small and precise and I felt every one of them. Erik nodded as he concentrated and I turned my head to look out over the lake while he worked. Once he had sliced the stitching, he produced tweezers and pulled out each thread… slowly.

I bit harder on the leather, fearing for my teeth and gripping the branch beneath me. The threads slid out one by one, Erik's own cold touch doing little to soothe the heat of pain. Thankfully, it was over soon.

He reached into his vest and pulled out a small bottle. "Rub this on the wound in the morning and before you sleep. It will prevent infection and reduce scaring. Do not touch it and do not under any circumstances, let it get wet." I nodded dumbly and slid it into my corset. "Aishe will provide you with any assistance you may need should your condition inhibit activity."

At the mention of that child's name, so casual and friendly, I felt my nails cut into the pads of my palms.

"Will she?" I pulled my collar back over my shoulder. "And why should she do that?"

He stood then and went to the horse. Averroës had given up on water some time ago and was now munching on a small shrub. When Erik approached, the horse abandoned his meal and greeted Erik with more warmth than he had even shown me.

"No," he said, stroking the horse's great back. "That is not the next question."

"What?" I said as I pulled the collar of my shirt back into its proper place.

"The next question is what business you had in the Breton forests, covered as you were in blood?"

He was facing me again, locking me in a gaze stronger than iron.

"I might ask what _you_ are doing in the middle of the Breton countryside with Gypsies, monsieur."

He nodded. "Fair enough. But I am not the one they call _Gadjí_ around here."

Gadji. Outsider. Unwelcome. Unwanted. No, they did not call him that. _Mulani_, whatever the word meant, carried respect I did not have.

"You need assistance, Madame. I cannot do that unless I know what has happened to you."

I knew he was right, I knew that my life depended on me reciting a story that did not exist outside of macabre fairy tales. But where would I even begin? I had left Erik for want of a better life with Raoul. If I told him, what would it say about Raoul? About me and the choices I made? The events of the last few months had clouded everything good about my life with Raoul. I did not want to give him the satisfaction of my tragedy, but I knew he would smell a lie the moment it left my mouth. I lacked any gift for words, but it seemed honesty was the only way.

"These Gypsies," I began. "They stole Averroës."

I had not realized it at the time, but when I saw Averroës being ridden by a complete stranger, my opinion of my caretakers, of all of the Gypsies, plummeted. They had taken Averroës from me at a time when I needed him, and that was unforgivable.

"It is a way of life, Madame. You must learn this if you are to be their guest." Erik had picked dup a large branch and was twirling it around in his left hand.

I shook my head, struggling to find the words that would make him understand. If it was a clear explanation that he wanted, I was not sure I could give it. I could tell him what had happened, but why was beyond my own powers of comprehension. The only place I could start was at the beginning, wherever that may be.

"No, they took him from me, when I was in Brest… with my husband. The horse belonged to him, as did the house. Not _them_."

"Who?" he asked, recognizing that I was referring to someone other than the Gypsies.

I shivered. I had tried not to think about them- about _him_- but now that I had, the wound on my shoulder suddenly felt fresh.

"Céleste, Raoul's sister… and Gilles." I knew I was not making any sense.

"Christine," Erik interrupted, for the first time speaking my given name with reverence, "perhaps you should start from the beginning."

I relayed the story with surprising ease. The canopied setting, along with the sounds of Averroës eating nearby, soothed me until the story no longer felt like it was my own. I told him of the de Changy sisters' strong dislike of me, Céleste's callousness at her wedding, and the odd attraction Gilles had formed for me in the brief time I had known him. I left out my half of it, and the argument I had with Raoul. Erik asked occasional questions, clarifying certain aspects and twirling with the large branch in his left hand. He was completely silent when I spoke of Raoul's birthday.

"That night, at Raoul's birthday… it happened so fast. Céleste made her husband angry and he dragged her outside to... punish her." Céleste, pregnant, soaked with a seething Gilles towering over her. Would that I lived long enough to see a hundred years, I would never forget that sight.

"I followed them to the garden and I tried to make Gilles leave her alone, but he wouldn't listen. Then Raoul was there with Meg's husband, they fought and Javier shot his gun to calm everyone. They agreed to settle this after the guests left and we all went inside. But I... I said something that… made Gilles angry, and then he shot me…"

I heard a loud crack. When I looked up, the branch Erik had held in his hand was split in two, a broken end grasped in each of his hands.

""When I came to he and Raoul were fighting… and the gun went off and Raoul… he... he…"

"It's alright, Madame, you do not have to continue," a voice to soothe, I welcomed it.

But I had to finish. I had to close the door on this part of my life if I was ever going to start the next

"Gilles was trying to escape and I picked up Javier's gun and shot at him… I don't know why… I was so angry I wanted to kill him. …

"I can understand why everyone thought I did it," I continued. "There was so much blood… and I was holding a gun… but I was in shock… I did not know what to say... And nothing would have convinced Clavell that I was innocent."

"Clavell? Georges Clavell?"

"Yes, do you know him? He was in charge of the effort..." I didn't finish the sentence. I did not need to tell him that Clavell had been head of the operation to kill him once upon a time, and that I had been a part of it.

Erik frowned. "Our path crossed once," he said fingering the edge of his mask "So you ran."

For some reason, that made me smile. He must have more faith in me then I thought if he believed I could outrun a mob. "

"No, I was arrested and on my way to jail, Dika and some of her friends tried to rob the carriage. A young man laying in the middle of the road created enough diversion for them to sneak in on the other side. They did not expect to find me, but they saw my chains and they helped me. They provided enough distraction that I could slip away. Clavell never saw it coming."

"Naturally. Law enforcement is the Gypsies' greatest foe. 'The enemy of my enemy is my friend.'" Erik tossed the broken stick into the lake and kneeled in front of me. "But that still does not explain why you happened to interrupt a funeral, Madame."

I was not surprised to learn that pitiful display had been a funeral, the mood had certainly been somber, but how that had happened had been out of my hands.

"I-I was hungry. I smelled food and I followed it. I came upon the funeral by accident and then…they threw me in a cage."

Silence is ambiguous, though most often it is damning. I had nothing to hide, yet I could say nothing more. I let Erik draw his own conclusions. I stood and walked over to Averroës, contently eating by himself. My hands once again found the familiar velvet nose and my eyes took in the white coat and pale eyes that made Averroës such a beauty. One of his many charms was that there was something otherworldly about Averroës and here in his naturally element, I almost did not believe what I touched was real. I tried to ignore that ragged line of memory that inevitably leads from this horse to my dead husband, but my efforts were futile.

"Christine…"

Raoul …not even the sweetest memories of our lives together could erase the image of his bloody death. I felt that knot of sorrow growing in my throat. I blinked and blinked again, but the tears kept coming.

"Christine…" I came back to myself. Erik, unreadable as always, extended his hand. When he opened it, a colorful blue kerchief, neatly folded, rested in the palm of his hand. "Christine," he said simply, "you have my sympathies."

This simple admission, this recognition of all that I had been through, nearly drove me again to tears. I took the kerchief from him, intending to use it to dry my eyes, but when I looked, I saw it was too fine for a simple kerchief. The embroidery and simple beadwork was similar to the ones I had seen on Aishe and Dika.

My lack of knowledge of their ways was great, but even I knew I was an unwelcome guest with Aishe's people. I suspected the only reason I had not been left to die in that cage was because of _Mulani's_ influence.

I knew what he meant by the simple gift; for now he wanted me to become a Gypsy. To become one of them, though, might push the boundaries of what any would find acceptable. Even if by a miracle they did accept me, I could not stay forever.

"Clavell is looking for me. He won't stop."

"You think I don't know what Clavell is like?" Another ironic twist at the corner of his mouth. "A Gypsy is hunted from the moment it is born and until you decide to leave, they will look after you like you are one of their own."

"I am not one of them."

"No, but you may become one. In time, we will be meeting with several other Gypsy tribes. I will argue your case before the _Kris_ for sanctuary."

"_Kris_?"

"The Gypsy governing body."

Christine Daaé, Comtess de Changy, opera diva, and now Gypsy? I would be protected, perhaps even appreciated if I could find some useful employment of my time, but this new role did not feel right. I had a feeling there was more to it than simply pleading to the elders to shelter me. But I did not have the luxury of looking gift horses in the mouth. If Erik said he could find me protection, I had to believe he would.

Erik took up Averroës reins again and handed them to me. "Aishe will take care of you. Stay with her and learn. Do what she does. Do not seek me out unless you absolutely need to see me. I will keep you informed of my progress with the elders, but never tell anyone who you are and most importantly, do not tell anyone who I was. Do you understand?"

I nodded and without another word, Erik began to walk away from me. Just as he was about to disappear completely, I called to him.

"Erik, what about you and I? What do I tell people when they ask how I knew you?"

He turned then, and gave me the closest thing to a smile I had ever seen pass on his lips.

"We are, Christine, as we ever were… old friends."

Then he was gone. Alone now, I took the kerchief and tied it around my skull just as Dika and Aishe wore theirs. In the eyes of the Gypsies and the world, I was a maid once again.


	17. We Met an Old Woman

**Chapter #16**

**We Met an Old Woman**

I had assumed that until Erik met with the _Kris_, my job was to stay out of sight and not get in anyone's way. With my injured shoulder I was incapable of the constant feats of strength required for nomadic living. Even the more menial tasks were beyond my skill. My inability to contribute did nothing to endear me to my unwilling hosts. That being said, until I had temporary protection of the tribe, I resolved to stay hidden in the back of Jal's caravan so as not to compromise it.

My plan seemed destined to fail.

The next morning, after my talk with Erik, I was awoken by the pain in my shoulder and Aishe softly shaking me awake.

"Wake and get ready," she commanded, "we have to go."

"Is something wrong?" I was very mindful of the family sleeping mere inches away, and I kept my voice as low as possible. Djano snorted and rolled closer to his wife.

"No, but we must hurry."

I never learned what happened to my ball gown after bathing at the lake. I had been given new clothes and the beginnings of a new identity, and I needed to learn to live the part. I slept in the same clothes I had worn the day before, even though everyone else seemed to have another set specifically for sleeping. After grabbing the salve and clean linens used to wrap my shoulder, I tip-toed carefully past the sleeping bodies of Djano's family. One of the boys opened his eyes for a moment, but seeing nothing worthy of his concern, he quickly went back to sleep.

I stepped out of the caravan into the early glow of a crisp, fresh morning. The crickets sang their last somber notes, and the misty dew of night still clung to the grass and trees. I closed my eyes and allowed my other senses to bask in the stillness and I felt new energy along with this new day.

When I opened my eyes, I saw that Aishe was tending my horse.

_She doesn't know_, I told myself. _She doesn't know he really belongs to me._ I still felt jealous as she rubbed Averroës' ears. Last night, I had tied Averroës to the back of the caravan, positioning him as far out of sight as possible. Averroës was used to being untethered, in a roomy stall, not forced to sleep at the end of a rope and I felt guilty for caging him so. But I was afraid that the moment I let him out of my sight he would vanish as quickly as he'd reappeared, and I'd never see him again. Myimpeccablelogic didn't seem to understand that _anyone_ could untie the rope. I could see now that my efforts at outsmarting Gypsies were laughable.

Aishe handled the horse as if she had known him since colt-hood. The ease with which she touched and whispered so affectionately in her native language was almost touching. As I watched them, I realized that Aishe looked different.

The two braids she usually wore at her temples were absent, tied behind her kerchief much like I had seen Jal. Her clothes were less vibrant, worn with age, and much more conservative then I had seen her wear before. Her face was smudged with dirt and on her temples, there was the same tattooed stars I had seen on the old woman. Her appearance was deceiving to her age, now she looked, not _elderly_, but older.

Placing the water bucket she had used for Averroës on the ground, she caught me staring at her and smiled.

"You are coming with me," was all she offered in the way of an explanation. She untied the knot that kept Averroës' linked to the caravan.

"Would you help me with this?" I held up the vial and the linens. I hated asking for her help, but I couldn't properly care for my shoulder myself. She nodded.

In seconds she had my shoulder cleaned and wrapped against infection. With my shoulder cared for and bandaged, she handed me Averroës' reins and started leading us out of the camp.

There were a number of people awake already. Some were lighting fires for morning meals, others hanging clothes out on lines to dry through the promising hot day. As we approached the end of the camp, we neared a number of young men watching another lead a sickly horse in circles. Most of the horses that I had seen were in the peak of health; this one looked close to death , yet all the men seem to take special interest in the animal. I wondered if they were considering having it killed.

One of the men saw us and waved. Aishe, seeing his greeting, turned her body and started walking in a different direction. I tried following too, but the young man caught up with us, calling Aishe's name.

"Well, Aishe, you look a sight," he said, taking in her faded appearance, "Where are you and the _Gadjí_ planning to take _my_ horse?" I then realized that this was the young man that had ridden Averroës the day before. His tone was playful, but he made me nervous and I tugged on the bridle to make sure the horse was still with me.

Aishe pushed her way past the young man with one arm and dragged me along with the other.

"Go back to your work, boy, and leave me to my own."

The good-natured smile of the young man fell. "Boy? And you a year younger than me! Who are you calling 'boy', _paash_?"

"Any _chava _that can't sit a horse properly is no man, Brishen Faa."

We were nearing a path and Aishe increased her pace, still dragging me behind. Brishen, smarting from the boy comment, ran in front of us and planted himself directly in our path. Raising his hand, he pointed an accusatory finger at Averroës who stared back at him indifferently.

"That horse is damn near wild; no one in their right mind would ride him!"

"This _Gadjí_ seems to have no problems with him." A dreamy look came over Aishe's face as she twirled a lock of hair around her finger. "And I know a real man that can tame any beast."

"Come off your hero worship, Aishe. This girl and your other friend can have the horse for all I care! Everyone knows animals follow the devil, and I'd bet my teeth that man is the devil himself." Brishen's eyes narrowed. "Anyway, he'd probably pay you more attention if you grew a tail and learned to prance."

Aishe's brown eyes flashed in anger, and I knew that the young man had crossed a line. Before I even had time to consider who he'd been referring to, Aishe grabbed my hand, clearly meaning to storm off. The dramatic exit that she might have been hoping for was ruined, though, when Averroës refused to budge.

He was leaning in the direction of a group of horses grazing under a near-by willow. There were eight in all, most of them unremarkable save for two or three sickly ones. Because I did not want another sore hand I let go of the reins. Averroës trotted towards the group. Most of them stopped their eating only long enough to make sure he wasn't a threat. One gray mare raised her head and waited for Averroës to approach. The two put their noses close, her blowing down his nostrils before returning to her meal.

I started to go to him, but Aishe held my arm.

"Leave him. It'll be easier if he doesn't come."

"But-"

Brishen stepped forward, the anger he carried earlier gone. "No one will claim him, if that's what you're worried about. He's still considered mine. I'll watch him."

By now, Averroës was contently mingling with the other horses. I could not quell my fear that I would never see him again, but I refused to voice that concern, and there was no other reason for me to stay. I did not even know where I was going.

"Thank you," I said, though it was a lie.

There was no friendly good-bye between the Gypsies. Brishen went back to his group of friends and Aishe stomped away in the other direction. Had I been in better shape, I still could not have kept up with her. She walked as if there was something chasing her and it was not long before I was too winded to continue on.

I did not call out to her; I hadn't the breath. I found an old log by the side of the path and sat down. When Aishe realized that I was no longer following, she rolled her eyes and came back to me as if it were an extreme inconvenience.

I didn't care. I had no idea where we were going and I needed the rest, but there was also several things in the exchange between Aishe and Brishen that I wanted to ask her about.

"He called you _paash_." It wasn't what I wanted to say, but it was all I could manage at the time.

"Yes," she said, as if the subject needed no further information.

"What does it mean?"

"Half."

Aishe picked up a small rock off the ground and threw it at the trees.

"Half? Of what?"

"Gypsy." Every word I had gotten out of her seemed to be at a great cost to herself. I might have stopped if I wasn't so curious, but this little bit of information stirred me on.

"What does that mean to you?"

"It means I am _marimé_, unclean because of my half nature."

"But how can you be half? Aren't you…" realization started to invade my mind like a strong glass of wine. I had always known that she was tremendously lovely, but I had never recognized there was a difference between her beauty, and the beauty of the other women in the camp. The hair, the skin, the deep-brown eyes were Gypsy, but there was a part of her that was not. "Was it your mother?"

She picked up another rock and threw it too. There were so many aspects about her that spoke of wisdom beyond her years, but there were just as many, like now, that showed how much of a child she truly was.

"My father was a _Gadjí_. He refused to take my mother's ways and he would not marry her. She was shunned for it. She became unclean, though she wasn't before. I was born _marimé_."

"Then why are you here? Why not be with people who wouldn't consider you… _marimé_?"

She lifted an ironic eyebrow. "You think _gorgio_'s would be any better when I am half? I am unclean to my people, but I am still accepted. Your people hate us and would rather see me die then walk among them. No, I would rather be here."

"What happened to your mother? Is she…" I couldn't finish that sentence, Aishe nodded and confirmed my suspicions.

"Last winter. A lung fever."

I had pushed far beyond what was acceptable conversation between two people, and we were hardly friends, but the more I learned about the Gypsies the more confused I was, each answered question leaving a thousand more in its place. As long as I had an opportunity to ask a few of them, I was going to take full advantage of it.

"Is 'Faa' an insult?

This surprised her. "'Faa'? No, of course not."

"What does it mean?" 'Brishen Faa', that was what she called him. With the hostility between them, I thought every word that I did not know must be an insult.

"It's his name and the name of his family. Most of us are Faa." But not her. _Marimé _might not be a surname, but it did denote her heritage.

The sun was now well above the horizon. My stomach growled for food and again I wondered where we were going and why at such an early hour. But there had been enough questions for now. I stood and brushed the dust from my skirt. Instead of taking me farther down the path, Aishe made for the trees and waved for me to follow.

We walked in silence for several minutes before we came to the edge of a farm field. Aishe's gaze traveled over the expanse of near-mature wheat and distant, grazing cattle before settling on a cottage sitting remotely in the middle of the field.

"What are we doing?"

"Shhh…." she crouched on her thighs, and I did the same. "We're paying a friendly call to the elderly."

We stayed that way until I thought my legs would melt. My thighs quivered and I wished fervently that I was asleep right now, even if it was in the back of that wretched caravan. We were utterly alone, save for the cottage in the distance, and when I noticed the bag tied to her belt, and the dagger peeking out from under the edge of her skirt, I wondered if she meant to kill me.

Finally, a man emerged from the cottage, followed closely by a woman. At least, that's what I thought they were judging by their squat shapes from this distance. Aishe stopped breathing and it was only after she saw the man ride away on a small horse-drawn trap that she exhaled.

She stood, and again pulled me to my feet.

"Remember, not a word from you. Act dumb, act deaf, pretend you're mute if you must, but do not say anything. Let me do all the talking."

The fear I carried for my own safety suddenly shifted when I had a sudden horrible thought that Aishe planned to rob this woman. I was already beginning to see that many of the myths of the Gypsies were unfounded, but if they were willing to steal a horse from my late-husband's estate, I shouldn't be surprised if they would rob from a woman by herself on a farm.

When reached the cottage, Aishe made last minute adjustments on her appearance and checked mine. For once, I seemed to please her and she raised her hand and knocked.

We heard a shuffle behind the door but no answer. Aishe tried again and the door opened a crack. Aishe was about to lean in, when the end of a gun was pointed directly in her face.

"What you want?" said a low voice.

"My fervent wish, right now, pretty lady, is to see your lovely face." Aishe sounded like sweetness itself, I was close to fainting being this near a gun once again.

The gun wielder did not buy her act any more than I.

"Don't give me any of that trite! I'm alone, but I can defend myself." To prove this, she pushed the barrel of the gun farther through the door.

"You see before you two helpless females. On the head of my babe, I promise I am not here to rob you." She was a fantastic actress, so good in fact that I almost forgot she had no child. Her aged appearance suddenly made much more sense.

Her show was convincing enough for the door to open for us to see a face. I had been wrong in thinking she was very old. She was certainly not as young as I, but she could not have been more then forty. Either way, she looked as if she'd had a tremendously difficult life.

There was a weariness about her eyes, and the grim lines in her brow that spoke of a life of hardship and labor. Her stringy hair fell out of its tie in brown, matted clumps about her shoulders, and her back seemed to be permanently bent, as if she were eternally reaching for something she'd dropped.

Aishe, however, was entirely blinded to this.

"We ask only enough time for you to fetch the mistress of the house. We wish to speak with her."

This infuriated the woman and the gun was once again shoved in Aishe's face.

"_I'm_ the woman of this house! Now what do you want?"

Utter shock came over Aishe's features. "No! Not _you_, mistress. You do not look a day over twenty!"

I was certain the woman was going to kill us after such blatant dishonest flattery. But she didn't. Her gun lowered and a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, illuminating several yellowed teeth hidden behind her thin lips.

"Well I am. A lady never tells her age, but my Lucien calls me his angel when he remembers I exist."

"No, no, pretty lady, you are mistaken. Angel's are plain. You have the look of a… a…." she struggled to find her words. I would have used 'dog', but as I was playing the part of a dumb, deaf, mute, my descriptive skills were irrelevant. Aishe, abandoned her search and threw up her hands, "Words cannot describe, madam!"

At any moment, I expected the woman to shoot us for her insolence, but she didn't. In fact, the opposite happened. She blushed very pleasantly and invited us. It was clear once we entered the cottage that there was barely enough for its inhabitants, let alone two strangers, but the woman sat us down and insisted we each eat a slice of her butter bread.

While we chewed, she sat at a small spinning wheel that had a large wrap of blue thread on the spindle. In the far corner, she had a loom, halfway complete with what looked like muslin for clothes. She wore a similar color now, but her clothes were long past their prime. She hummed to herself as she spun, and though the material looked plain, it was fine quality.

"Now," she said once we finished our snack, "you must tell me why you're on my land and why that one doesn't talk."

"My sister here was kicked by a horse, madam, at only three years old. Our late mother," she pretended to wipe a tear from her eye, "made me promise to take care of her and she goes with me whenever I travel. The burden is great, but for our mother and for family, I'll manage."

I would gag any moment.

"Travel, is it? Where are you going?" Her accent was different from the noble tongues I knew, and the lesser French speakers I had heard on the streets in Paris. If we were still in Brittany, and I had little reason to think we were not, Breton might well be her native language.

"We head for a village not far from here."

"If it's the one up the road, then I'd advise you to stay away. The priest of the town is a right nasty man, and the only thing he hates more than the old ways is the Gypsies."

"Really? Bad as all that?"

"Even worse. Why last time my husband and I were there, we were set to trade three piglets for a ram from the Lonchay's and the old buzzard gives my husband a talking to for not coming to church. I wanted to see the new baby delivered by the midwife, but I couldn't get away from that man as he listed my sins. On and on he went until I thought I'd fall asleep standing up…"

She continued on like this for a good, long time. Aishe, occasionally asked questions and shifted the conversation so that it was less about the woman herself and more about the town which she said was 'just up the road'.

There seemed to be some truth in Aishe's claim to pay a friendly visit to the elderly. The more the conversation continued, the more I realized Aishe was deliberately trying to keep her talking. By the end, we knew everything about Landerneau and every family in it, everything from the latest scandals to the fact that there had been a dry spell so far this season. With all this knowledge, we could go to the village and be at ease like villagers ourselves, and I suspected that was exactly was Aishe wanted.

Although Aishe was twisting and pushing the conversation, the woman would have been happy to talk about almost anything. There were no children around and it was obvious she saw few guests. And near the end, when she warned that her husband would be back soon, she seemed reluctant to let us go.

"You're good girls, and I hope that baby of yours feels better," she said as she led us to the door.

"You know how mothers worry. Barely enough to keep warm and we still need a bite to eat," she hugged the women then, and when Aishe pulled away, she gave the woman a look of complete helplessness and embarrassment. "I don't suppose, pretty lady, that you might spare an onion or two for the pot and… maybe.. an old shift you don't need, to swaddle the baby."

That was it. We'd be dead. The gun was not far and I knew she would use it on us now that Aishe's true intentions had become clear. I wondered if Erik might morn my loss or simply be relieved, then I wondered no more.

The woman went to the loom and picked up a finished length of spun muslin. This one was in a darker shade of blue, but it too was made with the utmost care. This she gave to us along with several onions, turnips, peas, and rosemary all with a warm, friendly smile.

Aishe said our goodbyes and we started back to the camp. I was feeling much stronger than I had this morning and I was able to carry the length of spun muslin, but I dragged my feet keeping far behind Aishe. Several times she stopped to let me catch up, but by the fourth, she lost her patience.

"Do you want to get back before tomorrow? Pick up your feet!"

"You lied to that woman. Have _you_ no shame?"

Her husband would be returning home soon. His house would be short several precious vegetables and a length of cloth that could have been sold for supplies or food. Would he be angry? They were alone, they lived on the land, laws to them were about survival, not the meaningless scribbles of town scribes. We had something of value to them, and we had gotten it through sheer charm and pretty words.

"Shame is what you're worried about, is it? That lonely women did not seem to mind giving me this, why should I be ashamed?"

"Because you lied to her! You charmed her out of all that by claiming you had a sick babe. You _should_ be ashamed."

Aishe let her bag of goods fall forgotten to the ground. She walked towards me until the distance between us was minute. I had to tilt my head up to see her, but I held her gaze and I did not move.

"You saw how she lives. You saw how little company she keeps. Was I not easing her loneliness for a time? I did not force her, I did not take without her knowledge. I gave her a sympathetic ear for a few hours and she paid me in kind. No, I feel no shame and I never will. Your superior morals, _Gadjí_ have no place in _my_ world. Remember who it is you owe."

She raised her hand and pointed her finger. Very slowly, she moved it towards my shoulder and pushed. I sucked in a hiss of pain as the tender tissues sent an electric jolt through my body. I felt my knees nearly give way, and my vision go white. By some miracle, I remained standing, though I closed my eyes against the glaring light. When I finally opened them, Aishe was already far down the path with her sack.

* * *

_**A/N:** Review, please!_


	18. Touch the Sky

**Chapter #17**

**Touch the Sky**

I did not go back to the camp right away.

For a while, I wandered on my own, noticing my surroundings enough to avoid walking into them, lost deep in the recesses of my own thoughts. I thought of many things, mostly of the ways that I owed so many people: my life to my mother; my happiness to my father; my voice to Erik; my heart to Raoul… I could live a million years and never be able to repay the debt; the detail that left me guilt-ridden was that I had never even tried.

I had not been given any shoes to go with my new garb —few Gypsies seemed to wear them— and I had not cared until that moment, when I stepped directly on a rock hidden treacherously amongst last year's fallen leaves. A loud curse escaped my lips. Trying to keep my sore foot from hitting another stone, I stumbled towards a patch of soft grass and lay down. I turned my attention on the clouds passing through the pale blue sky, already tinged with pink as afternoon drew towards evening. Eventually, the pain passed, but I stayed where I was, staring aimlessly into infinity.

As a child, I believed in goblins and witches. As a young woman, I believed in an Angel of Music. Now, though… I honestly did not know what I believed.

I knew that I was living with a group of people with a far different set of morals than the ones I was taught. Still, I always thought there were certain rules that everyone followed, or at least strived to. Stealing from a lonely woman seemed the height of immorality, but she had received much needed companionship and Aishe had not forced her to hand over the food. She had only lied.

I could not fault her for it. I certainly wanted to, something about her despite all her help still rubbed me the wrong way, but it couldn't be simply for lying. At that very moment _I_ was lying to my hosts by not telling them who I was. Survival was the apparent beginning and end of morality for a Gypsy, and if I thought hard on it, probably for normal society too. If morals meant bending reality without intense abuse or harm, I suppose I could live with it.

It was getting late. The sun was already hanging low in the sky and I had wandered far off the path. It was a wonder no one had come looking for me— not that they cared, but I had not been left alone at all since I had first woken up.

By the time I found the path and made my way back to the edge of the camp, it was already dusk. I approached the same way as I had left: near the meadow where the Gypsies left their precious horses free to graze. Several of the horses I had seen earlier were either still eating or asleep. I spotted Averroës with the sickly brown mare Brishen had been riding earlier. The animal looked much better in the failing light, but even the near dark couldn't hide her protruding ribs.

Averroës looked up and his ears flicked towards me as I made my way closer. I wasn't afraid of him, but it was still something of a shock to see him free in the wild. His grandsire had once nearly trampled a stable-boy for no discernable reason; I knew Averroës was gentle, but even that knowledge couldn't banish the macabre scenarios that flickered through my mind as I drew closer.

He let me pet him and scratch his ears, but he seemed less friendly when he realized I didn't have his usual apple. He nickered and shoved his nose into my hand, licking and sniffing it, as if he somehow expected his treat to be hidden between my fingers. When he finally gave up, my hand was covered in slime.

"Oh, I see how it is. The _one_ time I don't have anything for you, you get mad?" He went back to his meal and the mare continued to ignore me.

Despite his attitude, I still could not get over just how happy I was simply to see him. The mere fact that he was standing there, showing me that I hadn't lost _everything_… It filled me with a warmth that I could not even begin to describe. I wanted to jump on his great back and ride off into the unknown.

_And why can't I? _I wondered. My shoulder was still tender, and now throbbing from where Aishe had poked me, but every other part was fine. I was healthy, strong in my own right, and perfectly capable of sitting a horse.

If the certainty of delight derived from riding him was compromised by the slight possibility of pain, then I was needlessly scaring myself. It might even be good for me to lighten my mood.

There was still one problem: I had never ridden a horse bareback; Averroës only had his bridle. He was well-trained and friendly, but I knew him only as a stable-raised hunter. This free spirit was still unknown to me.

The eyes, the coat, the creature had always been a friend. If I trusted nothing else, I should trust that.

I patted Averroës neck with one hand, and stroked his back with the other. There was no way I would be able to pull myself onto his back without a stirrup, let alone with my bad shoulder. I looked around for a fence that I might be able to step up on, before recalling that fences didn't quite suit the Gypsy way of life. The only option I had was to somehow make Averroës lower himself to allow me to climb onto his back. With my good hand, I gently tugged his bridle towards the ground, pushing down on his back with my other elbow until he finally understood and sank to his knees.

I knew this couldn't be easy for Averroës: though it had only been a few moments, his legs were already shaking under the strain. Quickly, I climbed astride his back, to spare him the discomfort of kneeling for too long. As he pulled himself up, I was pitched backward, and had to throw my arms around his neck to halt my fall, wincing from the sudden pain in my shoulder. He found his footing quickly; it took me slightly longer. My near fall had left me hanging awkwardly, and I scrambled to pull myself back up. Finally I steadied myself, and patted his neck while I caught my breath. I was thankful that he had stayed so still, and I made myself promise to give him an apple as soon as I could find one. I leaned over and grasped the reins, and with a quick kick to his sides, we were off.

Riding without a saddle was… unusual, to say the least. I could feel Averroës' spine and the subtle shift of his muscles without the stiff leather saddle between us. It was not comfortable, but not entirely unpleasant. I found I had to use far more leg muscles to guide him, but the connection I felt with him, the feeling of absolute oneness, was addictive. I could go on like this forever.

I had intended only a small ride, a few laps around the meadow. But this was invigorating. I began to make larger loops until I abandoned them completely and headed straight-out into the opposite direction of the camp. We had drifted farther out than I planned and with subtle prompts on my part, we were going much faster, too. My heart raced and my blood ran hot in my veins. I tried ignoring the occasional jabs that pained my shoulder and focused instead on speed.

I was alive in a way I had only glimpsed before. A million eyes fixed on me at the height of _Faust_ was no match for the wind in my hair, the hoof and heartbeats in my ears, and the thrill in my soul as Averroës seemed to take me closer and closer to the stars. If I let go, I would fall, but if I simply raised my hand, I could touch the sky!

We did not venture into the forest, but the landscape was becoming rockier. I tried guiding Averroës onto softer ground, even the grass was now being compromised by the increasingly large areas of rock. Steering him back the way we came wasn't a help either, as I had no idea which way that was. My depth perception was failing as the sun continued to sink in the west and it was only at the last moment that I realized we where heading straight for a large, fallen tree.

Head down, legs tight, I made myself as small as possible heading into the jump, whispering a silent plea that I wouldn't break my neck. I felt Averroës' whole body become taut just before we reached the tree and then, we took off.

Creatures of the earth are not meant to live in the sky. Not even the bird with his amazing gift of flight calls the air his home. But we dream, and we try. One leap was never enough for an entire lifetime, but for that moment, it was.

Averroës landed gracefully; I fell against his back with a painful "ooff!"

I slowed him to a trot, letting him choose the best way to get back. The mare was waiting for us by the willow and once we reached her, I slid carefully off Averroës' back.

"An apple next time?" I said, patting him on the neck. "How about an onion? Aishe has a whole sack of those."

Thinking of food made me realize I had not eaten in a very long time. By now, it was already dark, and I would be lucky if Jal had anything left for me.

I considered leaving Averroës in the field with the mare, but decided against it. As we walked through the caravans, I noticed the camp was unusually quiet. There were no mothers fussing over half-prepared evening meals, nor their children who had stayed out playing despite that same fussing. I saw absolutely no one, no matter which way I looked.

I did _hear_ something. In the occasional moments when I would break free of the drug-induced sleep, I remembered that sometimes at night I would hear music. I heard it again now. Jal's caravan was empty. I made sure the horse had something sweet to eat, then left to find other people. The steady pulse of drums and a lilting string instrument carried me towards the middle of the camp, where, once I arrived, I found a celebration.

I had seen so little of the legendary Gypsy freedom, save for the daring clothing of the women, that I had almost begun to suspect that it did not exist.

There was nothing that I had not seen before at the Opera. The music, the dancing… I was fairly sure I had seen far more shocking things backstage after a performance than I saw tonight around the fire. What was different was the collective enjoyment displayed by every single person. Those who were not dancing sat watching those that were fondly. The musicians worked happily away on their instruments. But the dancers…

There was no one routine they all followed. About ten women were on the opposite side of the fire, obeying their own impulses as they moved, swayed, and spun in any way that seemed to feel right. Some had their eyes shut, the rest of them half-closed, drunk on the freedom of their own joy. It was pure intoxication. I hardly knew if I wanted to join them or continue watching.

One, though, stood out amongst the rest.

Aishe, lovely as a dream, was so much a part of this foreign world, yet she deliberately separated herself from it. Everything seemed to originate from her hips. She moved them in circles, occasionally fast, occasionally more slowly. They dipped and paused, passing the momentum on to her arms. At first she spread them, both on either side, then she raised them skyward, seeming to push against everything that kept her grounded.

There was movement at my side, and I spotted Jal pushing her way through the crowd toward me. Everyone, even the other dancers, seemed to have their eyes trained on Aishe; even I had a hard time looking away. Jal had little Chivali sleeping in her arms and she nodded at me as she made her way to me.

"What's going on?" I asked. She smirked.

"Do we need a reason to dance?"

"I suppose not. But most people do." She huffed at my remark and adjusted Chivali in her arms.

"You think we just live off the land or rely on the kindness of lonely farm wives?" So she knew. The Gypsies had found a useful purpose for the _Gadji_ after all. "The stomach needs food; the body needs to be warm. The _spirit_, though, needs something else."

"You are not dancing, Jal? Is your soul satisfied?"

This made her laugh: the sound was drowned out by the crowd but the way she threw her head back and laughed would have been shocking in normal circumstances.

"Believe me, child, there was a time when I was one of them. I've passed that and there are those waiting for their turns."

She nodded towards the other end of the camp, where several girl children were attempting to mimic the movements of their elder counterparts. Many of them did a fine job, but they still lacked control that comes with maturity.

Dika was one of them. She had given up actual dancing, it seemed, and decided to spin instead. Faster and faster she went, gradually loosing her footing and stumbling to her left before landing right before the lonely figure of _Mulani_. He wore his usual black and if it wasn't for the leaping flames of the firelight, he would have been an invisible part of the landscape.

Dika stood by herself, swaying still as the world righted itself in her mind. She seemed to find her footing once she caught sight of who it was she might have collided with, and quickly returned to her friends

"Can you dance? Do you know anything about sewing?" Jal's voice brought me back to the present.

The answer to both her questions was yes, but very little and rather poorly. Compared to what I was seeing now on the opposite side of the camp, I was no match for their version of dancing. What I could do, and quite confidently, was sing. But no force on earth would ever make me do it again.

"Why do you ask?"

Jal shrugged.

"Just curious. We may have to find some use for you at the fair." Erik had said something about meeting the Gypsy governing body soon; this fair she spoke of might very well be the same thing.

"Anyone who looks at me will know I'm not one of you. Maybe it would be best if I just stayed in one of the tents during the fair."

"Aishe is not whole Roma, it never hinders her performance. Most are quite intrigued when they see her." I could see why. "A good teacher is a valuable thing."

Aishe was moving now, making her way through the crowd of dancers, toward the clearing on the other side.

"And her teacher," I ventured, "who is it?"

A funny expression came over Jal's face. The baby chose that moment to cry and Jal put her finger in little Chivali's drooly mouth.

"Jal," I asked, watching Aishe make her way across the fire, "who is her teacher?"

She did not have to answer me with words. She nodded and my eyes followed her gesture across the fire, near Aishe, straight to Erik.

The song had changed, and so too had Aishe's dance. Before it had been about impulse, about looking deep down in oneself and acting on what you found. This new one was about seduction, drawing another into the secrets of you possessed.

Her movements were slower, more deliberate and she accentuated them with an occasional, random jerk of her hips that stole the crowd's breath. There was no doubt in anyone's mind that this dance was for the masked man.

Flesh-colored mask still in place, he looked nearly human in the firelight. No human though, no mere _man_, could be so unmoved by such a willing woman. She wanted him, alright, and it seemed she was doing everything in her power to get him.

The music was nearly at a fever pitch, even those sitting down seemed to be moving along with the music. Yet _Mulani_ remained unmoving.

Still, even with his apparent calm, his unwillingness to succumb to Aishe's unspoken, carnal promises, anyone could see the lust in his glowing-yellow eyes. If she had wanted to win nothing but his desire, Aishe certainly had that.

And it made me see red.

I muttered something dismissive to Jal, then pushed away from the circle around the fire, back towards camp.

In all my life, there was one person who had once wanted me more than anything, lived and breathed for my love, and nearly died when I could not give it. Now I knew that person cared nothing for me anymore.

I did not belong here, I was not one of them. He was and so too, was she.

* * *

_**A/N: **Wow! Nearly four thousand hits! Let's see if we can catch up with reviews._

_Thanks for reading!_


	19. Melody Enwind Me

**Chapter #18**

**Melody Enwind Me**

_**One Week Later**_

_**Late Summer 1888**_

The lush green forests, cloaked in mystery and age— so secretive one expected to see a _Korrigan_ darting between the massive stones rimming the dozens of tiny, pagan ponds—were my first indication that we had reached Huelgoat. And from the east, hundreds of caravans, horses, and wandering performers, some traveling on foot, brought further proof that we had reached our destination, and that we were not the first arrivals. Many other troupes of Gypsies had already set up their camps.

Though it lingered in the back of my mind, I had little time to sit and think on the significance it would have on my life. With hundreds of tasks to do to prepare for the combined fair announced for that day, all my energy went into current happenings, not questions of my future.

Once camp was made, everyone had a chance to greet their old friends; the new Gypsies treated my presence with varying degrees of curiosity, indifference, caution, or outright hostility. Which reaction I preferred, I could not say. One child was so fascinated to see a _Gadjí _in Gypsy garb, she ventured to touch me, only to be pulled back at the last moment by a frantic mother. Perhaps I did prefer the curious: at least they didn't see me as a polluted beast.

Aishe had once uttered 'marimé' within my hearing to describe how she was seen by others as a half-blooded Gypsy. I had no idea how important that word was to these people until the label was thrown directly at me.

"_Gadjí_," a sharp voice snapped me out of my thoughts, bringing my attention back to the task I'd been assigned. "Put that sack by the fire. Don't touch them!" I dropped the bag of apples as though it were full of hot coals. If they were bruised by my actions, so be it.

The woman, several years my junior, was from a tanner tribe of Gypsies that frequented the southern regions of France. She had taken one look at my hair, and my grey eyes, and decided that she was going to make my life miserable.

"You want us all to starve? Be careful with those, and don't touch them, foolish girl." I wanted to stick out my tongue at her, like the child she treated me as, but I kept myself in check and retreated to a spot in the shade of a caravan.

There was a certain protocol to being 'marimé' that I was only now just learning. I could not touch food to be served to others, I could not approach a cooking fire, and I most certainly could not brush, even accidentally, against anyone else. If I did, as Aishe explained to me, I ran a grave risk of polluting others. My own Gypsies had never insisted I exercise proper marimé protocol while in recovery from my wound; another reason in which I probably should thank Erik. After a few short hours in the company of hundreds of new Gypsies, I realized I had no reason to complain of my own troupe's treatment of me; compared to now, I had been an honored member of the troupe.

It was an unbearably hot day, even for late summer. The ability of these women to stand over open flames for hours as the sun beat mercilessly down upon us from the sky, was truly a marvel. My morning had been spent performing the tasks no one else wanted; hauling, cleaning, even removing rotting nails from the wheels an old woman's wagon. I was wilted, yet these women looked as if they could go on for hours.

There was something to be said about having meaning and purpose behind what you do. I was craving it dreadfully lately.

I knew I was still relatively weak and even if I was in the peak of health, no one would want me to do anything, but the meaninglessness of my days was starting to wear on me. I needed something to give principle to my life once again, and I was willing to do nearly anything to get it.

"_Gadjí_, bring the water bucket," Jal called to me. By now, I was very aware that the word was meant as an insult, yet I had heard it so many times I reacted as if she had use my given name.

Sweeping one of my heavy braids over my shoulder, I went to collect the bucket sitting by the side of the fire pit. I saw the wooden bottom, but no water.

"Jal? There's nothing in here."

Jal wiped her sweaty hands on the front of her skirt. "You'll have to get more, then. Don't take it to the lake. Go find a stream: the running water's cleaner in the forest."

One of her brown eyes closed quicker than the other. I almost dismissed the idea that she had winked at me, until I saw the faintest smile play across her mouth. Had she seen the longing looks I cast toward the open forest? She must have, because she was giving me license to wander by myself alone in the forest. I would have to remember to thank her one day when we were not under the pressing eyes of the other Gypsies.

"Are you sure you'll manage?" Not that I thought she needed me, but she was only one woman. I looked around the fire and saw that every other was too absorbed in their own tasks to care about another's. A lone woman, heavy with child, sat under a tree watching the proceedings, but it did not look as if she would move anytime soon.

With a shake of her head, Jal waved me away and returned to her work. I scooped up the bucket and nearly ran to get out of the camp grounds.

My feet took me through an area of the camp into which I did not normally venture. The old, the lame, and the unattached normally kept to the outskirts of the camp where less work was done. I rarely found need to venture here, but now that I had, I realized I did have some business with an occupant on this side.

The ominous black tent of _Mulani_ was situated so far from the rest of the tents and caravans, one might not know it was a part of the camp. Complete daylight, and in the middle of a heat wave no less, I still shuddered.

Erik and I had barely seen each other since that conversation below the willow, and exchanged words even less. He kept to his business and I kept to mine, and on the few occasions when both of us attended the fire celebrations, I made sure to leave in time to miss watching Aishe's plays at seduction.

Now that the Gypsies had gathered, and a meeting of the _Kris_ was at hand, I would have to speak with him soon. But I pushed that task to the back of my mind to attend to later, and brushed past the tent in search of fresh water.

Had I become distracted by the beautiful trees, or the clouds shining in the distant sky, I might have stumbled on the rocks and fallen face first into the very thing I sought. A small stream wound its way through the forest, and I followed it to a gathering of boulders. A strange, strangled sound came from behind the stones, like nothing I'd ever heard. Hitching up my skirts, I climbed to the top, ignoring the dull ache in my shoulder as my curiosity compelled me to see where that odd cacophony was coming from: the rushing water smashed against the stones creating the awful sound, I felt as if I heard the souls of hell crying out from their damnation.

Foolishness, I told myself and climbing down the rocks, I submerged my bucket in the swiftly flowing stream and went back the way I came. But it was not the camp I found next. Nestled against an ancient tree, I found the entwined limbs of an eager young couple.

I smiled at how quickly they came apart once they realized they had an audience. My smile died when I saw whose privacy I had invaded.

Brishen! The horse handler of my Gypsies was coupling with a woman in the brush. And not just any woman. Her fair red hair and rose-petal coloring declared her a _Gadjí_ like me.

"Brishen, where are your manners?! Shouldn't you buy her a meal first?" The girl and Brishen did not find it quite as funny as I did. He buttoned his shirt, to cover his partly exposed chest, then leapt at me with the speed of a cat. His hand encircled my bicep and I gasped at his rough grip.

"Are you here to spy on me?"

"No. I came to get water," I held up my bucket. "Honestly, I won't tell anyone. Even if I wanted to, no one would listen to me."

He let go of my arm, and relief washed over his face at my words. One of the rules of marimé was to avoid encounters with _Gadjís_. Brishen was technically no less unclean than I now, and he had far more to lose if anyone found out. If his family, or anyone else, discovered his secret he could be cast out of the troupe entirely.

He looked back at his companion, then to me, "Thank you…" His speech trailed away, and I realized he probably didn't even know my name.

"Christine."

"Christine. Thank you." After all this time, only five people amongst dozens of Gypsies knew my true name. Well, six now.

"Just get yourself back to camp before someone realizes you're gone. And at least walk her back to the village. You never know who you'll find out here."

I wasn't the cleverest person in the world, but I had some humor in me.

My sudden good mood gave me strength and when the camp came back into view, I headed straight for the ominous black tent. History or no, I had unfinished business.

As I approached, a person stepped out of the opening of the tent. The figure did not notice me and I held my breath. No light on earth was unkind to Aishe and she seemed to revel in it as she stretched under the oppressive mid-day sun. It was somehow more shocking than catching Brishen with the village girl, and when she turned, she found me with my mouth gaping unbecomingly.

She did not say anything, and neither did I. There was nothing to say that I could not already see on her; her shirt was out of place, her apron askew, and the normally tightly braided hair at her temples was hanging freely about her face.

Perhaps I had a talent I did not know about; I was a blood-hound for amorous encounters.

The silence stretched between us, becoming more uncomfortable by the second. The defiant look on her face convinced me even more as to her activities in the tent than the disarray of her clothing, and she seemed to be daring me to say something, anything about her relationship to the man who was probably still lounging inside the black canvas.

Gripping the bucket hanging from my forearm, I raised my chin and turned on my heel, headed back towards the center of camp. What did it matter to me what happened between them? I should be happy that my former tutor had found in another woman what I myself could not give. And if Erik was to find someone to share himself with, I could not think of a more magnificent creature then the magnanimous Aishe.

My mood grew darker as I marched towards the women's circle and bitter taste in my mouth was certainly not cavalier happiness.

Only Jal was left in the cooking circle, rocking little Chivali in her arms. She nodded when she saw me but did not take the bucket when I offered it to her.

"No, that's your job now," she said. The baby squirmed in her arms and Jal lifted her higher on her shoulder. "Once the fair starts, you walk out there and give water to anyone who needs it. Not _Gadjís_, just us. Is that clear?"

Clear enough, but not understandable.

"Won't people be offended if I offer them water?" If I could not touch a cooking pot, why would I be allowed to touch drinking water?

Out of her apron, Jal produced a wooden ladle. She dropped it in my bucket and slapped my hand away when I reached to steady it.

"Don't touch that and you'll be fine. Now go, before everyone dies of thirst." With her free arm, she turned me in the direction of the fair. With a firm shove, I stumbled that way, with the bucket in tow.

I remember Madame Giry once telling the corps that the reason the old lament the lost years of their youth is that, in their minds, they change them. The damaging details, the embarrassment, and utter heartbreak fade away after a time, until only fond memories remain, that leave people mourning something that never was.

She was right, of course. She had been right about almost everything. I looked on my traveling days with my father with nothing but fondness, despite our weariness and constant hunger, and thought only of his sheltering love. Yet, though I recognized how biased memories can be, I could not help thinking that my worst days as a traveling violinist's daughter were worlds better than the work I was reduced to now:

Water-carrier, and an unclean one at that. And to think, I had been privately moaning that there was no more purpose in my daily life only an hour ago.

I began my journey as the fair was already in full swing. Bucket in hand, I circled the various tents and caravans where Gypsies displayed their amazing powers of performance. Since the moment I had stumbled into Djano's camp, I had only seen the legendary wanderlust of Gypsies life I was beginning to think that was all there was to it. I could see now how wrong I was.

The very people I had lived amongst this past month, transformed before my very eyes into the substance of legend. Djano became the man who swallowed fire; the craggy old woman, responsible for healing me, became a mysterious fortune teller; the blacksmith that had cut away my chains juggled swords; and little Dika became a human contortionist, bending and twisting her small body in ways that bordered on freakish. I saw one man with a trained bear, barking commands as the beast hopped about on one leg. I recognized the open cage the trainer had waiting for the animal, and I averted my eyes immediately.

Villagers from Huelgoat turned out in hundreds to gape at the oddities of human talents, and I was among them. I was just as impressed as the local blacksmith and baker to see little Dika tie herself in a human knot. I ceased to recall that see was just a child, and a child that had saved me from a power-hungry man. She was simply an entertainment to distract me from my life.

My senses were over-ridden after hours of circling, I was relieved to come to the area of the fair where simple horse-trading was happening. Brishen was trying to barter with a local villager for one of his grey mares and he waved to me as I helped another horse-handler to a ladle-full of water.

As I made my way towards him, a flash of thick, golden hair caught my attention. My heart seemed to stop beating and the air in my lungs left me in a hurried rush. I could not see the face of the man, but that silly, irrational place in my heart whispered it was Raoul. I forgot myself and shoved my way through the crowds, my soul filling with joy as every step that separated us disappeared.

I could already smell his scent, see his laughing blue eyes clearly in my memory, and feel his warm touch on my skin! He was alive!

I knew he couldn't be dead! I knew he was alive! If only Clavell hadn't snatched me away!

The face that turned to me when I grabbed his shoulder was not Raoul's. Not even the ferocious desires of my soul could morph that stranger into a familiar person. The voice of reason knocking away inside my mind finally overcame the roaring of my heart.

_He's dead. You watched him die. _

I apologized profusely to the man, then retreated blindly into the crowd.

I made my way back to Djano's caravan, now deserted, and raised the bucket over my head, and threw it with all the strength left in me. Something caught around my neck and snapped when I hurled the bucket at the caravan wheel. As I watched the bucket fall and the earth absorb the spilt water, I saw my cross, signet ring, and the broken chain hanging over the lip of the bucket. I fell to my knees, ignoring the mud, ignoring the pain in my shoulder, ignoring everything to get to my prize.

I had not wept properly for my husband since his death. I had been running from the moment I woke up. I clutched the cross and signet ring at my chest, as my hands shook and the first of many long-delayed tears streamed down my face. I never let myself think about it. Now I had no choice but to give in to that sorrow that had hung in my heart since Gilles pulled the trigger.

* * *

Aishe found me as I hiccupped my last sobs.

"Are you crying?" I quickly dumped my hands in the remaining water in the bucket and rubbed some of it on my face. I didn't want anyone to see me cry, least of all Aishe.

"I'm fine," I lied. "I had something in my eye, that's all."

I did not expect her to believe me, but she didn't question me any further. She dropped a basket of food, courtesy of Jal, in front of me and leaned back on her heels, waiting for something.

Bread, cheese, and an apple. Even as busy as she was peddling baskets to local villagers, Jal made sure everyone ate. I had no appetite, but chewed on a bit of cheese while Aishe watched me with those dark eyes.

"Do you need something?" I finally asked when I could take it no more.

"Yes, actually, I do." I spit the remaining cheese in my mouth onto the ground. The taste made me nauseous.

"Well, what is it then?"

"I need you to be an audience filler."

A memory stirred in my mind of the managers, Messieurs André and Moncharmin, arguing over low ticket sales. Several young men of the stage crew had been dressed in evening attire and made to sit in the audience to give the appearance of healthy sales. The men had looked ridiculous, all never having worn a fine suit a day in their lives.

"And what's your act?"

Aishe leaned over me and reached behind my ear. She held a small egg in her hand when she withdrew and held it in front of my eyes to see. With a deft flick of her wrist, the egg transformed in mid air into a beautiful white dove with a black silk ribbon wrapped around his neck. The dove took flight and disappeared, leaving behind the ribbon.

"I thought you were learning herbs," I said dryly.

She looked at me in the same way she had when I caught her exiting Erik's tent. Still, predatory, entirely confident in her own skin.

"I am his student, Gadjí, in _all_ things."

* * *

Why Aishe felt she needed me to stand in the crowd, I had no idea. Her own skill and beauty attracted enough villagers to turn a generous profit. If I had not been there, standing in a small clearing between tents of other performers, someone would have surely been happy to take my place.

Good as she was, the brilliance Erik had shown me occasionally in his underground home was unparalleled. Aishe's magic doves and colorful smoke seemed pathetically juvenile compared to what I knew of what _Mulani_ was capable.

The man himself was present at Aishe's show, but inactive. He stood to one side, out of the way, wearing a long, hooded robe of the darkest red, nearly black. The cowl draped low over his face, casting shadows over the mask that would make a normal person question what they saw. It added another clever level of mystery as the beautiful woman conjured tricks out of thin air.

Few spectators noticed my presence, but those that did inched away. I saw one lady, out of the corner of my eye, take in the braids, kerchief, and colorful shirt I wore, and knew she thought me Gypsy. They craved the entertainment of these strange people, but they feared the riches they might lose if one looking like me came too close. I wondered if there was an equivalent word in French for '_marimé_'.

I smiled politely at her, then turned back to the show just in time to see Aishe make a small doll dance without strings.

The doll fell immobile to the ground and I decided I had enough. Crowds and thirsty performers needed my presences more then Aishe right now.

But as I made to turn, I found that I could not do it.

It started as the faintest of melodies. So low, I thought my mind was playing tricks on me. Yet before it took over me, I saw the glazed look of pure, unadulterated wonder take over the faces of a few innocent spectators in the crowd. It wasn't meant for them, it was for me. The Phantom could make anyone think, see, or listen to something if he willed it and he wanted me to hear his song.

I was born to music. Only a musician knows the insatiable need for beauty only music can provide. It lives not in the head, nor the heart, it does not even take up the soul. It permeates the length and breadth of everything you are. My body craved that unearthly sound just as it did water. I could live forever and require nothing but that voice.

Nothing else mattered but that wordless bliss as I took two unwavering steps toward the source.

Erik moved towards me with his hands seeming to ride the beat of his own melody. Slowly he raised his arms and extended the long spindles of his fingers. The hood still obstructed his face to nothingness, but those eyes —those _threatening_ eyes— glowed like yellow hell in my mind. His hands curved as if he held the power of life between them, moving in a graceful arc until they were nearly at my eye level. And with a small twitch of those fingers, that produced the sweetest of music, he threw something in my face that made me see white.

The song was gone and the trance he held me in was now broken. I tried to rubbing the offending material from my sight, but all I saw was white, white, white, and then suddenly it retreated into a foggy grey hue. I could see the outline of people and trees overcast without their natural color. But something was not right, the angle was somehow off from when I had seen it clearly moments ago.

I saw astonished faces staring at me, with mouths gaping wide and eyes wider. People had the most terrified expressions on their faces, and I wondered what it was they feared. I continued to try to rub away the substance, but this sudden feeling I had, that I was floating, did not go away.

It did not go away because I was indeed floating. A shriek died in my throat. I looked down at my bare feet and saw something like mist, but they were far from the ground. What does one do when they float? I was too scared to move my legs and the wild looks I was getting from everyone made me feel less and less in control of my body.

I had never seen Aishe shocked before, but even she was impressed when I looked her way. My gaze returned to the red devil and that burning gaze seemed once again to drill fire into my skull. His hands had disappeared into the folds of that crimson cloak and now he held me in air with nothing more then the force of his eyes.

I was coming undone. I felt my skin stretch and pull to the breaking point and my mind seemed to spin faster and faster as if I were hurtling towards the earth. My eyes began to fade and I saw nothing —nothing!— but pure white stabbing my eyes, blinding me until I could do nothing but _feel_ as my being stretched beyond pain, beyond agony, until I thought I would be here forever.

When I finally sensed earth beneath my feet, I heard collected gasps from the ground I felt I had left behind. My vision began to clear and all that had left, returned to me in a violent rush. My poor legs began to crumble beneath me and I made the final plunge back to the earth I had left moments ago.

* * *

**_A/N_:** _FYI, if I owned Phantom and all its profits, I'd probably be in a castle having a massage, eating $500 pizza, not doing this. Don't sue. _

_Hope you enjoyed and don't forget to leave a review. _


	20. A Savoir Hears the Loyal

**Chapter #19**

**A Savior Hear the Loyal**

Commotion broke out among the crowd the moment I hit the dirt. The trance Erik held all in moments ago ceased, and reality was thrust upon an unwilling audience.

I sat on my knees on the ground, staring blankly at the pads of my hands while my mind worked in a frenzy to right itself. The color of my palms shifted between that grayish hue, to earthly colors, and back to white again.

When I looked up, a multitude of blurry, concerned faces stared back at me. Two women were closest to me, looking as if they wanted to help, but too frightened by what had happened to risk touching me. I did not blame them.

"Out of the way! _Move_!" Aishe's commanding voice parted the crowds as she hurried over to me.

I held up both my hands, marveling at how they trembled. I hoped perhaps it was another side effect of Erik's magic. I knew it wasn't so.

That simple melody that had lasted all of a few seconds, awakened something in me I thought long dead. It came alive with such furious fervor, it left me trembling and weak on the cold ground.

Good God, how could this _still_ be?

Aishe gripped one of my hands and pulled me to my feet. My vision had begun shifting again, and I clutched her hand tightly as everything vanished again into an ocean of white.

"Aishe," I gasped, "I can't see!"

Her arm came around my back to steady me. I felt her lean close to my ear and whisper, "I'll guide you; you'll be fine."

The crowd was growing restless. Confused murmuring began to explode in accusations of devilry and demands for refunds. Aishe guided me past all of it quickly, and took me out into an area where I could no longer hear the crowd. I felt the heat of the sun suddenly vanish, the soft breeze still, and knew that Aishe must have taken me into a tent.

My vision wasn't clearing, though. It remained brilliant white and I felt myself start to panic. My other senses worked madly to make up for the lost one, and my nose was invaded with scents, both sweet and smoky, and entirely indiscernible.

"Aishe, what's wrong with me? What did he _do_?"

"I don't know! It was my show and he…I… he's never-" the utter bafflement I heard from her was enough to send me over the edge. Erik was capable of wielding great and terrible powers and I suspect she knew it too. The thought that he could and would blind me for amusement or spite kept running through my mind.

"I think I need to sit down."

She helped me lay on something soft and smooth: Pillows, I realized a moment later. A sigh of pleasure escaped my lips as my body molded against the supple cushions, and I stretched my toes in an effort to become more at ease. After weeks of sleeping in the back of an uncomfortable caravan, my body demanded I take advantage of this comfort.

"Try closing your eyes. Maybe that will help. What is it that you see?"

"Nothing," a yawn interrupted my sentence, "I see nothing but white."

"White," Aishe repeated, rolling the word in her mouth. "Wait here."

I felt the breeze once more as the flap of the tent was parted, and then she was gone. I shut my eyes tightly, and when I opened them, my vision was a blur of colors that transformed almost immediately back to white. I tried again and again, but the result was still the same. I sighed and closed my eyes again, and this time I kept them shut. With any luck, whatever was affecting me was only temporary and maybe if I slept, my vision would fix itself when I woke.

My mind and heart were working too fast to allow me to slip into any kind of mindless oblivion, let alone sleep. I lay still, my eyes closed, and waited for the storm in my mind to die down.

I was not alone for long. When I heard the flap open and close again, I let myself relax, breathing deeply, as one who is asleep.

"Christine? Are you alright?"

Twice today, my given name had been used. Where I should have found it comforting, instead I found it unnerving. A vital piece of me was held by these people. Not even the gentlest language, whispered with unfailing kindness, could make me trust Aishe, and I continued to lie as if I were boneless.

"She is fine." It was technically impossible for his voice to echo off the canvas walls, but he was never one to obey such a trivial thing as what is or isn't possible. Erik's words permeated the small space and everyone in it.

"I do not think it was wise to do that to her. What if someone should recognize her or _you_ for that matter?"

"The villagers will talk until what happened is lost. Go back to them and finish your performance and they will forget even sooner." I never thought he would speak so to his paramour; there was no trace of affection, and Aishe answered back with equal resentment:

"May I remind you that it is _you_, not _me_ who's at risk? _You_ were the one who spoke of the importance of concealment?"

"And unless you leave this minute, child, it will be compromised. Now go, before they move on." Silence, no movement. Then, "Go now!"

A quick, warm summer breeze cascading over my body announced Aishe's exit. Alone without another presence to ease the tension between us, I lay still, and hoped to be left alone.

"You can stop pretending, Madame, she's gone." I should have known better than to think I cold fool a man who once lived as a ghost. Still, I lay 'asleep' as best I could but opened my eyes just enough to discern the shapes in the tent through my lashes. It hardly mattered that I still could not see color.

A subtle sound of movement, and I saw a figure standing at my feet, his tall frame towering over me. His long arms dangled ungracefully at his sides and I saw that his fists were clenched. There was a tenseness in the stance of that figure that suggested irritation, and my own anger rose in response. It wasn't as if _I_ had blinded _him_, after all.

I had to work harder to control my breathing, making it appear as a natural slumber's breath. I shut my eyes completely now and wished myself in some far-off place, safe from this man and his horrible influence. What had happened out there among the crowd was a not-so-subtle reminder of a weakness I thought successfully killed seven years ago when I abandoned him in the underground. No mortal being could resist such a voice, let alone one such as I, who had passed hours drunk on its beauty. It was more than a weakness: it was an obsession. And I knew I had to fight it with all the strength I had.

So, like a child, I kept my eyes firmly shut and pretended myself safe.

I could definitely _feel_ him. The force of his presence was nearly as strong as his voice. He moved from his place at my feet, to my side, where he knelt next to my body. I gave up any pretense of fooling him I still held, and turned my head away, clenching my eyes as tightly as I could.

"You disappoint me, Madame. A woman of your years should look at the one speaking to her," his voice danced in my ear, raising gooseflesh throughout the length of my body.

_No, no, no_! I would not give him power over me again, if I could help it! My mind was my own, and I would never willingly give him that or any other part of myself again.

He was unnaturally quiet. The lone sound in the tent, something halfway between a breath and a whimper, came from me. I took comfort in the memory that he had been just as unresponsive to me on our first meeting among the Gypsies.

Finally, he sighed. "Very well, if that is your wish, so be it. I have information for you though, that you will still want despite your… objections. On our last meeting, I told you about the _Kris_. Tonight you go before them. I suggest you look your part."

_As a lost, frightened female, shivering in the wind_, I assumed he meant. It was the Christine he knew best.

I felt him rise and linger a moment before an outside breeze stole into the tent. Then, suddenly, I had to open my eyes, because there was something I needed to know.

"Wait!" I called, blinking furiously at the fog clouding my vision. The white hue, and the grey mist, was gone, but my eyes felt exceedingly tired.

I could see black canvas walls, and a small boiling cauldron surrounded by both vials and bowls. A single candle burned in the middle of a bowl, sitting next to a discarded blood-red cloak.

The man himself stood near the entrance to his tent, holding the canvas open to aid his escape.

With my right arm, I pushed myself upright. I stole a glance at the pillows beneath me and realized the lush finery I was lying on was Erik's bed… the one he no doubt shared with Aishe.

I rolled off of it, with a slight shiver of revulsion.

"Will you be there?" Fear makes strange bedfellows and if I were to face my destiny tonight, I wanted at least one person I knew to be there with me. Buquet might even be a welcome companion

The stony mask gazed back at me and the voice was equally as flat. "That I shall. I am your witness tonight, to assure the _Kris_ of your good character and altruistic intentions."

"I thought you were dead, you know." I found myself saying, "They found a body in the cellars. I thought that—"

"—That I was rotting away in some dirt grave of a broken heart? Of course you would. But as you see, my life has gone on. Spare the dramatics, _Comtess_: they are not necessary here."

I closed my eyes once again and took a breath. I tried to think of a biting reply, anything to show him that I was not helpless, and that he could no longer hurt me as he once had. I failed myself on both counts.

"Fear not. If all goes well, this will be but a bad memory to discard at your convenience."

Much as I had him.

"Don't make the mistake of thinking you know me as well as you did, Erik. I am not the girl I once was."

He leaned forward slightly, but it was enough to fill my vision with only him. Something passed through his eyes that quickly waned, and the characteristic clear, distant focus of this new man settled in place.

"You would do well to heed your own advice, Madame."

The flap fell closed behind him and I was once again alone.

* * *

"Do not speak unless spoken to… always show respect… never demand anything… always ask permission…"

I would not be surprised if I had to ask the _Kris_ to blink; their decisions seemed to rule everything else.

Jal had been the only one to offer me advice before that evening. I was grateful for her help, despite my dwindling patience at being given so many rules. Royalty demanded less respective protocol than the _Kris_.

I had spent the remainder of that day much as I had the beginning. Though the impending decision was robbing me of my nerve, I took up my water bucket again and wandered the fair, quenching the thirst of the weary performers.

I passed from tent to tent, performer to performer, watching in horrible fascination as their shows became even more otherworldly. The humanity I knew of these people seemed to dwindle with the fading light. I caught sight of a woman I had spied earlier, holding the attention of a young Gypsy girl from another tribe. The girl held her hand up, as if for a monetary compensation, and she was given instead a small book, that looked like a Bible.

As the crowds started to thin out, I made my way back to Jal and Djano's caravan. When Jal and Dika spotted me, both mother and daughter sat me by the fire and demanded I not say a thing, nor move.

"You must look Gypsy, if you wish to be accepted as one. If you look like you love our life, they will let you live it freely."

Made sense, though it was a lie. I loved this life and this constant state of pollution that I found myself in as much as I loved my bullet scar.

The soft, brown eyes of Jal traveled over my features, my hair, and my body. Scrutinizing every smudge of dirt and every hair out of its place, I knew she was not pleased with what she saw.

Hands descended on my hair and began to loosen my braids. When she was done, my hair floated down over my shoulders like a wedding veil, free for the first time in more than a month. Dika's deft fingers snatched up the free strands and began retying my matted curls in two thick ropes to hang on either side of my face.

Next, Jal attacked me with a wetted rag. With one hand, she held my chin immobile while the other worked roughly over the skin of my face. Dika giggled in delight and I tried to remember the last time anyone had done this to me.

Jal tossed the rag over her shoulder when finished and admired her handiwork. Dika, recovering from her fit, scratched her head.

I looked down at myself. There was nothing special about my clothes. I had been wearing more or less the same ones for weeks now. Regret filled me as I recalled the gallery that had once been my wardrobe.

"They will have to do for now," Jal said, reading my mind. "At least you look less a _Gadjí_ then when you arrived. No one in the _Kris_ could fault you now for trying. You're ready."

"Ready!" Dika chirped.

I was blindfolded, and guided along a path by Jal as she whispered the code of behavior in my ear. My concern lay in what I would say rather than how I would say it. I knew not how to appeal to the sympathies of people who thought me dirty, let alone convey my tale in a way that didn't let them know too much.

When the blindfold came off, I stood before a group of dozens of men. Vivacious youth and reserved age made up what I assumed was the _Kris_; not a single one showed any ounce of sympathy.

"What is your name, _Gadjí_?"

"Christine, monsieur. Christine Giry."

Not a brilliant alias, but one that served its purpose well enough. The true names of both women had been absolved long ago through marriage.

"And why do you seek our shelter, Christine?"

Dozens of eyes on me, sharp and quick. There seemed to be no need for me to answer. They already knew and I lied anyway.

"I am a wanted woman, for a crime I did not commit."

At the far corner of the communal fire, I spied a solitary man, sporting a flesh-colored mask, which seemed to beam in triumph at my failure.

"There is an unlucky air around you, Christine. A young boy died on the day you came to us. What judgment would you give were you in our place?"

I lowered my eyes passively and caught sight of the gold chain holding my secret treasures around my neck. One a gift from an innocent, the other a token passed onto a mourner after the murder of a loved one.

"Would that I were in such a position , messieurs…" all eyes on me, "… I would hope my decision would be compassionate and just." They began to talk amongst themselves, their voices becoming a dull, unintelligible growl, no louder than the fire they sat around.

Would that I was a Gypsy man, deliberating over the future of one such as myself, my judgment would be to abandon her. I offered the hounding presence of suspicious law enforcement and the memory of a lost hope, torn apart by song. I held no gifts, only curses.

Voices died down and I knew my fate had been decided. Even the music of the distant fair seemed to stand still to listen.

_Stand straight, damn you!_ I chastised myself as I once again realigned my shoulders. _At least face this with dignity._

Up until that moment, the probing questions of the men had floated to my ears from an unknown source. I could place no voice to the dozens of faces watching me from their confident seats around the fire. The one that reached me now, as the final verdict was revealed, was the pleasant rolling baritone of Djano.

"Before we pass our judgment. There is one thing we wish to know. How is it you are familiar with…"

Whom he was referring to was unmistakable. Yet whether ironic or not, it probably was in bad taste to refer to a man present as a ghost. Every word out of my mouth was a gamble. There was very little for me to say that was not enormously complex or entirely unbelievable.

I did not look at him: I'd lose what little nerve I had to those yellow eyes. I kept my gaze on Djano's face and opened my mouth before I even knew what I would say.

"He was my tutor, sir, from many years ago, when I was an impressionable young girl."

There was the absolute truth. Words that would not fill my palm, echoed with more meaning than any of these men would ever know.

Jal appeared there from the shadows, carrying a plain silver goblet on an even cruder tray. With a great care, she handed it to her husband. As she left she tossed me an excited grin that left me nearly giddy with unknown anticipation.

Jal retreated to the outer circle of the fire where her boys and Dika, holding little Chivali, were waiting for her. Brishen too and every other member of Djano's tribe stood in the circle of the light, waiting.

My gaze traveled back to Djano, who was watching curiously, cup still in his right hand. Without a word he raised the goblet and pressed it to his forehead. He passed it to the man on his right who did the same. On and on the cup passed through the hands of Djano's tribe, until it reached the hands of the old woman.

She still wore her show clothes of the fortune teller. Only, her hair was tucked behind her ears just so that the tattoos along her temples seemed to glow.

The old woman touched the drink to her forehead and muttering over the brim, she dropped a powdery substance into the bowl. She stood, holding it up for all to see. Then fixing me with a gaze as old as time, she came to me and handed me the cup.

"The mouth spouts lies, the eyes veil the truth. Only the body can tell us if your motives are pure, _Gadjí_. All of us have touched this drink with our thoughts. If you drink and survive, you will have our trust, our protection, and our spirit."

I never had much of a head for hard spirits. Life as Raoul's wife had given me a tolerance for noble drinks, but the earthly ails and spirits that were my lowly birthright, were too much for my cantankerous constitution. The drink I now held in my hands could very well be poisoned, but the real question was, did I care?

No, I realized slowly, I did not.

I raised the drink up to my lips and felt it burn its way down my throat. The entire tribe leaned towards me in sadistic curiosity to see if I would keel over. I remained standing. My head swirled as the alcohol reached my blood, but I knew I had passed this test.

The spirit of the Gypsies was in my keeping and what one possesses, one becomes. I was Gypsy now. I would have the protection of these people till my dying breath.

Across the circle of fire, I hoped that Erik felt my triumph as I did.

* * *

**_A/N:_**_ My multi-talented beta, RJDaae, has made a beautiful painting of Christine and Averroës on deviantart. Link is posted on my bio. Check it out, she's a fantastic artist as well as beta. _

_Please tell me what you think! Review! _


	21. An Offer By Firelight

**Chapter 20**

**An Offer by Fire Light**

My victory was short-lived.

The drink had just barely settled in the pit of my stomach when Djano ordered I be taken away. I was not blindfolded this time, as I was led back to the camp. Dika scurried along beside me, and Jal stayed at my other side, casting occasional astonished glances my way as we wandered past the fairy ponds.

I could not shake the feeling that the _Kris_' judgment was not finalized. I had done what they wished and survived the drink, but I did not feel any more safe or welcome than I had before.

The drink left a warm glow in my blood that made up for my thin courage. The stars beat down silently from the sky and I dared to demand the answers everyone else seemed so loath to give.

"Am I a Gypsy now?" 

My question startled Jal enough to slow her gait. She resumed her pace when she saw I pursued no answer. I could feel the truth deep in my stomach, fitting company for the vile drink.

They had expected me to die.

"You won't get me that easily!" This time, Jal nearly tripped on her own feet.

A blazing fire was waiting for us next to the caravan. Jal's two boys, having lit the fire and found the limits of their resourcefulness, clamored wildly around her, demanding to be fed.

With the expert hand of an experienced mother, Jal ushered the boys inside to eat. As she made to follow them, she hesitated outside the caravan and regarded me at my seat beside the fire.

"There will be more… conditions, but yes, you are now…Roma."

The fire was large, warm, and entirely feral as I stared into its dancing blue depths, alone. I scooted closer, to sit on my knees, with my bare legs touching the ground, searching for the answers I no longer had in my life. Now that I was Gypsy, perhaps I would inherit something of the peoples' legendary powers. More than dancing, or a zest for life, I wanted the capacity to see the future… my future.

A half-burnt stick lay at the edge of the fire pit. I picked up, and snapped it over my knee, so that each piece had a lethally sharp point. Testing the bluntness of one with my finger, I thrust it savagely into the fire, where it connected with something solid. I jabbed at it repeatedly, until a blazing log, balanced precariously atop two others, dislodged and fell hard against the unforgiving ground. Sparks flew in all directions, showering both my hair and clothes. I shot out of my seat, batting frantically at all the tiny slivers of amber flame which threatened to consume me. Once they were all extinguished, I tossed the sharpened sticks into the fire pit, watching with morbid satisfaction as they burned.

My gaze traveled to the very edge of the fire, where the flames leapt and nipped at the sky before vanishing into thin air. Beyond them, a man was approaching from the forest.

I had seen Erik more times in one day than I had in seven years.

As he came closer, he seemed distracted, as if the force of his thoughts kept him cut off from the outside world. When he saw me, he waved for me to sit, and I complied. For several moments, he paced on the opposite bank of the fire pit, shooting me occasional looks of utter bewilderment.

"Is something wrong?" I asked.

The sound of my voice startled him and he rubbed his hands together as he organized his thoughts and pushed whatever was troubling him away.

"How do you feel?" he asked, ignoring my question and kneeling before me to scrutinize me himself.

"Fine, woozy, but fine."

He accepted this, and standing, he resumed his awkward pacing before the fire. I was not as well versed in Gypsy life as he, but it didn't take his vast knowledge to guess that something must have happened after I left. I had done what they wanted and I had passed, could it be that even what I had become was unacceptable? Erik would never have such troubles. Every living and inanimate object around him would be in his control so long as he willed it. The laws of gravity, society, and life meant nothing to one such as him. That reminded me…

"How did you do it?" I suddenly asked. How was such a thing possible, that at his command I had floated in mid-air?

Erik ceased his pacing and looked at me. His unblinking eyes regarded me from behind his mask, and the fire danced in shadows across the kid-skin, making it seem to move like the plains of a real face. They showed suspicion for the briefest of moments, until he seemed to realize to what I was referring.

He flexed his hand towards the fire. The light exploded in a burst of colors, swirling towards the sky, casting vaporous images of birds and shadows. I watched the last of the images disappear among the stars, taking wings of freedom that I did not have.

"Illusion, Madame. What the senses observe, the mind surely believes."

He held a long, graceful hand out for me to see that he carried no secrets there.

"Your time here has not been easy," the statement did not call for a response, and I did not feel the need to give one. 

"No doubt," he went on," you realize that Romany trust no one that is not their own."

"Save you."

"Save me," he agreed. "Though perhaps _trust _is not the word to use for my situation They respect my skills and they fear my wrath. But they do not trust me. Mine is a rare position. You, however, have neither herbal knowledge nor true Gypsy blood to recommend you to their good graces."

"But I drank, and Jal said—"

He held up his hand to quiet me.

"Never mind that. You saw the looks on their faces, Madame. No one expected you to survive."

"Did you?" I turned my head away from him and stared blindly into the distance. Shards of wild moonlight stole through the trees like thieves, silent as butterfly wings, delicate as my own life. 

His voice, this time, was endearing as it was mocking. "Though you may think so, Madame, I have not made it my life's work to destroy yours. I was not informed of what they planned to do."

I turned back to him, looking for the truth on his living skin. The eyes, as always, were impassive and the lips set in a thin line. 

"Do you know where the Gypsies come from, Christine?" His infrequent use of my name always threw me for a loop. I did not know where this conversation was going, or what had happened after I left the _Kris_' fire circle, but I went along with it anyway.

"No," I said, "I don't."

"No one knows for certain, not even the people themselves know their own history. One theory is they are a lost troupe of Egyptians, hence the name. 

"And another, is that they were the forgers of the nails that held Jesus to the cross. They kept one, which would have saved him much suffering, and for their trickery, they are doomed to wander forever, enduring ostracization for all eternity. You see, some people are damned before they are born, and no amount of prayer or good deeds will ever bring them salvation."

The hell I feared was not bathed in eternal fire and horned demons. My hell was falling through darkness, clawing at thin air to find something to hold onto, utterly alone. There was little love between me and these wanderers, but I could not bear to think of the simple people I knew, weaving baskets and nursing horses, doomed to an eternity of any hell because of an accident of birth. Little Dika, Brishen, even Aishe— none of them deserved such a fate.

"Why are you telling me this?" and why did I have such a foreboding feeling growing in the pit of my stomach? The way my former tutor was speaking to me, as if we were old friends catching up on the lost years, was enough to stir my curiosity. But the way he was looking at me and the way I could see his mind working behind those gold eyes, made me fearful.

"I am telling you this to give you a deeper understanding of the people around you. They are not what you think, and they are not like anything you have ever known, Christine. It might help you better understand the decisions they made tonight."

He turned away from me and stretched his arm to lean against the caravan. Most of the other fires in the camp had died out, the only sound that of a lonely guitar playing a Gypsy love song, as most had already gone to sleep. My heart rose and fell with the notes, and somehow, I knew Erik's did too.

His voice now melded with the music: lonely and longing, yet very much alive. "They prize life and loyalty more than any group of people I have ever known. If you are one of them, no matter what you do, you will always have the unwavering protection of any Gypsy clan."

"It sounds lovely."

"It's called survival," the sudden ire in his voice silenced me. He turned towards me in a blinding fury and I shrank down into my seat. "Do you know anything about that?"

Normally, it left me alone, but the dull ache in my shoulder suddenly surged to life with startling energy. Of course I knew of survival! Each day was a new mission to make sure I made it to the end. The Gypsies gave some shelter, but their support had been wavering up until tonight. Without it, Clavell waited with greedy delight for my destruction, and somewhere out there, was a murderer with whom I had kissed in a moment of weakness. 

What did Erik know of my life that he had not decided long ago, or did not bother to learn? I wanted to pull back my shirt and show him the nasty scar I would carry now forever.

His anger died as quickly as it had flared. Erik reined in his control and pushed a lock of black hair behind his ear.

"You do not know, no matter what you think. You don't understand, and that is still a matter of concern to the _Kris_. You are too free in this tribe, and they need someone to bind you to it."

A sinister suspicion began to form in my mind. Even before it was clear, I could feel a chill creeping up my spine. 

He could not possibly mean what I thought he meant. There was no way he would allow such a thing to happen after everything that already had. My mind was surely just playing tricks on me, and I would laugh at my stupidity in the morning…

He would never do it.

_I_ would never agree to it.

Yet still, very slowly, with an ironic sneer on his face, Erik extended his hand to me. He unfolded the digits, until there was nothing left to hide. The flames glittered rather beautifully off the smooth gold surface of the trinket he carried.

"Remember illusion, Madame. It seems you and I are to be married."

* * *

_**A/N:** And thus the plot thickens! Me likey the reviews! Leave one!_


	22. A Very Nobel Sacrifice

**Chapter #21**

**A Very Noble Sacrifice**

"Get away from me!"

That simple band of gold, winking in the firelight, was more terrifying than the absurd proposal he had given moments before. I shot up out of my seat and immediately backed away. My heel caught on something, and I tumbled to the ground. Erik awkwardly extended his hand to help me up, but I scrambled out of his reach, shouting at the top of my lungs.

"Just stay away! Don't come any closer! Stay away!"

The hand dropped to his side and I stared at the other, where the ring was still visible. My last glimpse of that cursed thing had been as I handed it back to him, killing all hopes he held of a normal existence with me as his wife. He saw me stare, and closed his palm.

"Will you be quiet, Madame, and let me explain?!" At this, my eyes narrowed. An hour ago, I had nearly been poisoned, and now, a self-proclaimed mad-man held a gold band with which to bind me to him forever. Explanations, by now were quite moot.

He could not have what was not there, and glancing at the forest, I flew from my seat and ran for all I was worth before I lost my nerve.

Less than four steps, and he caught me. With one fell swoop, he grabbed me by my arm and yanked me back towards the fire. The bones in my wrist rubbed agonizingly against one another and I feared they might snap. My knees buckled beneath me, and my other hand plucked at his, digging for freedom. The skin of his fingers was rough and calloused, and I pulled my hand away in shock, remembering how soft they had once been on the few occasions he had dared to touch me.

"You _selfish_ woman!" he snarled, so low and so dangerous, I thought he might just kill me on the spot. Bent over as I was, Erik leaned into me until his face inches from my own. "Do you think that I have lived and breathed these last seven years for this? Your place in _my_ life ended the moment you walked out of it!"

Erik threw my arm back at me, and the force if it sent me dangerously close to the fire. I rolled away just in time to feel the heat stroke the side of my body. The movement jarred my already tender wrist, and I crossed my arms in front of my chest, keeping my eyes on anything and everything but him.

When I did look his way, his eyes were half-closed, and his body nearly trembled in an effort to keep himself in check. The half-light of the moon and the wavering glow of the fire made his face indiscernible, save for the scowl just under the edge of his mask. Slowly, he opened his eyes completely, and _Mulani_ fixed me in a gaze that could melt ice.

"I would that you were oceans away or rotting in Clavell's clutches, Madame. I'd give my life that this was not to be. I'd never want it _this_ way!"

The heat of the day had continued into the night. I shut my eyes for a moment and let it roll over me while my mind buzzed. That he was just as panicked as I was flew through my thoughts and departed. The rage I saw, that crept behind his eyes when I defied him, was a familiar sight that had haunted my waking nightmares for years. I could still hear that demented cry as I tore away the mask… and with that memory, my resolve solidified.

"Think what you will, Comtesse, but this was not my doing."

My mind snapped to attention and my anger flared. "You _lie_!"

"What reason would I have to do so? What do I gain from this but more prying eyes, and an intruder that will no doubt force me to change everything..." Here, he stopped himself. Shaking his head, he ran a hand through his tousled hair, leaving me to guess what he had almost revealed.

If not for the pain in my wrist, I might have thought this was not real. My mind lacked the creativity to imagine this Erik, as he worked to control his own breath, and the despondence of his posture as he watched me watching him.

Something softened inside me. Neither of us was willing, and there was someone else caught up in all of this— a student girl with dark eyes and swaying hips, perhaps dreaming peacefully right now of a man that was, _is, _her lover.

"But... why?"

He spread his hands on either side of his body, "What better way to keep an eye on outsiders than lashing them together? There is nothing maliciously meant in this, Madame. As far as the _Kris_ is concerned, your clever explanation of our connection is the truth. This is merely an extension of that Gypsy knack for survival. Isolate the threat, keep an eye on it, and kill it the moment it makes any sudden move."

I could not accept that. Something so conveniently stale could not be so innocent. He had begged me to be his wife once, and here I was being served to him like a bloody wedding cake. The very script of a marriage proclaimed fidelity and eternity. I didn't have time for that.

"If the idea of marrying me is so troublesome, know that it is not a marriage in the way you fear."

Damn, was I really so readable?

Fixing my face into a mask of emotional barrenness, I issued a challenge: "What is it that I fear?"

His eyes flashed, and something nagged in the back of my mind. I had seen that loaded glance before, with furious lights beating down on me, my heart fluttering in time with his voice.

"Commitment," he answered, slow and sensual. "In this marriage, there will be none. The ceremony, the vows, the whole damned business counts for nothing if we do not wish it to. No one expects _Gadjís_ to play by the rules, and this is one we will break with only our knowledge."

"I'm not a _Gadjí_ anymore."

I could picture the eyebrow arching underneath the mask.

"Really, Madame? Do you plan on traveling in a caravan, weaving baskets, and performing for gawking villagers to your dying day? Unless you desire to fully commit to a Roma life, it has no power over you. There is no legally binding contract in Gypsy marriages, just your word and mine. All we need do is stage a very convincing performance until the opportunity arrives that you may flee."

"An illusion of marriage," I mused. The Marquise, Lady Simmonette, and many others had all perfected the act of committed wife when it suited them. The only difference was that I knew this would be a sham. "What exactly do you get out of it?"

"The satisfaction of watching you squirm. The sooner I have you on a boat the sooner I can forget about you. That has worth enough for me."

I huffed, though I wanted to scream. That was not what I meant at all.

"No, are there any _requirements_ of this… binding?" My mortification was a growing bile in the back of my throat. I was no stranger to the obligations of marriage and yet I was blushing as hotly as an inexperienced girl-child. What I wanted to know and what he was toying with, was how much would we have to play at, and how much would be real?

He must know what I meant. He _had_ to: there was no way I could say it aloud. A man of his mental strength could figure out far more veiled questions, yet he seemed to feed off my unease as he sing-songed, "Convincing acting, and nothing more. So long as you play along as a dutiful mate, I will ask nothing of you. And that I will vow to."

A few simple words, robbed of their power, and a false play at something sacred, could earn me my life. Souls were sold for less than what was asked of me now. I should throw myself into this with utter abandonment… but I couldn't. Not now, probably not ever.

My eyes fell and I felt the fresh sting of tears. Anger dissolved into despair, and on my lips, a name beat softly with the rhythm of my broken heart…

……_Raoul…_

The night was soundless save for the summer breeze, and the occasional muffled nicker from Averroës in the distance as he slept. The moon was fresh, glowing over the distant horizon and night-time lay all around me, a few short hours into its infancy.

What would I do for my freedom? How far would I go to ensure my life was my own once again? The embrace of the devil, or the damp cold of a prison cell?

_Anything_… anywhere or anyone… the desperate have no need for ethics.

I met his eyes directly and I found it surprisingly easy to say, "Tomorrow, when I am rested, you'll have my answer."

My mind held the evidence of my twenty-five years, from a childhood in a frozen land, to that brief time I had been called a diva. If I tarried through my memories, I would find an echo of a voice whose beauty could make me weep from only the barest recollection. It was one of my treasures, because for that brief time, I had not been alone. My tutor and I had melted together in musical bliss and perfect understanding. Time had marched on, aging those images to faded yellow moments that were a marker of what once was. No calendar was needed to know change, though; I knew it in my heart. Because the owner of the voice, that once held my soul, accepted the lie I had given him.

It was nothing to feign exhaustion and have Erik escort me back to Djano's caravan. Nothing more to slip out, a few hours before dawn, when I knew he would be in his tent. But harnessing Averroës and getting him to follow, that was something else entirely.

Gentle soul, faithful companion, I pulled frantically on his bridle, but he swung his head from side to side, refusing to move.

"If you don't come now, I'll have to leave you!" Somehow the thought of leaving without my horse was more loathsome than that of marrying Erik. I begged, bargained, and pleaded for him to follow me again, all to no avail. "Please, Averroës, don't make me do this."

I lay my head against the side of his neck, and breathed in that unique combination of earthy food, and living beast.

There was nothing I could do. Where I had not, Averroës found something worthwhile to stay for. I held his long, beautiful white face in my hands one last time as I said a tearful goodbye.

"I won't forget you. I know you don't understand, but _please_ don't forget me!"

One final rub behind his ears and I turned my back on him forever. The ache in my heart was almost more difficult to ignore than the bullet I once carried in my shoulder. A bullet could be removed, the wound could be cleaned, and in time, it would heal. Pains of the heart never recover. This added another awful frame of pressure, right beside the spot where Raoul's death continued to rot away inside me.

Hitching my travel pack of bread and a few meager apples higher on my shoulder, I forced myself to walk towards Huelgoat.

It was impossible to see anything but shadows and darker shadows. I kept my arm in front of me, ready to fend off any collision I might have with something solid. I made my way through the camp like a blind-woman, feeling and listening for obstacles in the dark.

Inky black images melted in and out of one another. A shade moved in front of me, blocking my path, and my hand made contact with a body before I recognized the shape as a person.

I began, "Who" and was cut off by an urgent '_shhh_!'

A hand clutched my own, and a small lantern was lifted high enough for me to see a familiar face.

"I will take you as far as the edge of the city; you are on your own after that," Aishe shoved the lantern towards me, and I barely caught it before it fell. "Come with me."

As there was no reason not to, I followed her.

The lantern swayed in my hand with each step and I held it high to keep sight of my guide. In the darkness, the beauty of Huelgoat forest was startling. Everywhere I looked, the scenery morphed between natural life and ethereal fantasy. The wind cackled at my ignorance and I could swear I saw a giant's mocking face watching me from a bed of earth.

In the half light of the lantern, I could see the smooth planes of Aishe's face. She held no emotion there, or at least none for me to see, not even in her soft brown eyes. It was very easy to understand why Erik fancied her, maybe even loved her. But that was irrelevant; they could marry or kill each other now and it would not be my concern.

"What will you do?" she said at last, just outside the border of the village. The bridge was just ahead and sleeping next to the village was the man-made lake reaching out toward the horizon.

"Find my family, if there's any left."

_Find myself, if there's anything left._

"And once you find them, you will forget those that helped you."

My feet stopped of their own accord. I felt my face go hot, then cold, and my fingers twitched as I felt the need to hold something, if only to feel grounded.

My actions were noble, my motivations pure. How could she not see that? I was practically giving Erik to her, and for that alone she should kiss my bare feet. She had a chance, a bright one, thanks to me. My future had doubt, stretching out before me into infinity.

No matter what Erik had relayed to her, she knew nothing. _Nothing_!

But I said nothing to defend myself. Shame overwhelmed me, leaving a hollow emptiness in my chest. No matter what she did not understand, she was right. Once I crossed that bridge and disappeared back into the world of _Gadjes_, I would do my best to erase her and her people from my mind.

Aishe stopped when she realized I was no longer walking with her. She turned and it was no trick of the light that I saw triumph, edged with relief, radiant off her now. She came back to me slowly, and when she cocked her head in the manner so similar to her teacher, I half hoped that on the way back to the camp, she'd fall into a fairy pool and break her pretty little nose. Just as she had to me, I shoved the lantern back into her grasp and watched as she fumbled to right it.

I turned towards Huelgoat and ahead of me, the village was practically asleep, resting for the long day ahead. Light glowed only in the windows of a distant inn and I knew I had found my resting place for the night.

I marched towards my destination, the vagueness of my future cutting like knives into the pads of my feet with every step. Before I reached the bridge, my purposeful stride faltered. I stopped and turned to see Aishe as she attempted to melt back into the shadows.

"Wait!" I cried, not knowing why.

Something about this felt very wrong. It wasn't that my escape had been too easyby tomorrow I would have troubles enough but somehow I felt my way was not to be found in that village. I almost wanted to ask her to take me back, but I doubt she would, even if I asked.

No, I told myself, this was right. This was how it should be, an abrupt end to a wavering disaster.

Aishe waited for me to say something. I was probably old news to her now and the sooner I spit out whatever I had to say, the sooner she could get back to sleep.

I hesitated, then blurted, "Be kind to him."

The world was a very unhappy place and we needed to cherish whatever joy we found. If Aishe was Erik's, I only wished it would last. As for my own, I hoped it was waiting out there for me to find.

I did not know if she heard, but I thought perhaps she had. She disappeared into the forest and I turned towards the village inn, putting the Gypsies, and _Mulani_, out of my mind forever.

A/N: My wonderful beta is also a wonderful artist. If you check out my bio, I have a link to a painting she created of Christine and Averroës. If you have time, check out all her other work, it's quite impressive.

Reviews make the world go round… or at least get the chapters out earlier. Leave one, please!


	23. Strange Things You Do

**Chapter #22**

**Strange Things You Do**

From the moment I entered that inn, I knew I should not have come here.

It was a mistake…

A huge mistake…

Strange, how an hour ago, I had every confidence in the world that I was doing the right thing. I was abandoning the sham I had played at for the last month, and returning to my own world. Now, all I wanted was to run the other way.

The inn was the kind of place priests warned respectable young ladies to avoid. Drunkenness and exhaustion were a deadly combination, and men dipped and swayed amongst the tables, reeling from both. Low barks of laughter and angry grumbles sounded over clanking tankards of ale. Long locks of hair sailed swiftly past the tables, before disappearing with paying companions behind closed doors.

I stood at the entrance, the door long since closed behind me against the night. Those who remained scattered around the room were people who clearly took their spirits seriously, and the many that glanced my way gave me a look of heightened annoyance that I had dared interrupt their solitude.

And interrupt I had. While scattered laughter and drinking continued on, the entire tavern of the inn seemed to still as they gauged my level of threat. The most dangerous I had ever been to anyone was when Raoul's cat, Lotte, had decided to make my lovely new Persian rug into confetti, and even then the cat had gotten more swipes at me than I had with the maid's broom. But these people didn't know any of that. To them, anyone entering at this hour was bound to be suspicious. The moment that I showed weakness, or looked as if this was not exactly where I belonged, I was done for. Catching my breath, I rolled my shoulders back, and raised my head high… only to feel my maiden braids sway along with my movements.

_Stupid Christine, a good actress needs a decent costume…_ and I wasn't dressed as a commoner. Even worse, I was dressed as a _Gypsy_. No wonder they were watching me so distrustfully.

I had to do something. On the far end of the room, I spotted a lone table tucked neatly in a dark corner. I moved towards it as quickly as I could without running, and all but dived into one of the chairs once I was there.

Throwing my pack on the table, I cursed my stupidity in not bringing any money, or even attempting to earn any previously. I could not conjure birds out of thin air or levitate people, but I could sing. I knew I could. The only thing that kept me from doing so was a long-standing grudge. Still, it was far too late to lament the money I hadn't earned. Instead, I turned to survey my surroundings.

At a table not far from my own, a man balanced his head precariously on his hand. His eyes, as they regarded me, slowly glazed over, until they finally closed and he slumped forward on the table in a dead sleep.

I did not envy the headache he would have later. I did envy the sleep. I had been awake some twenty hours, and I longed for my soft pallet of linen, and the light snores of Djano's family in the back of the caravan.

Turning back to my table, I dug into my pack and pulled out an apple. Examining it, I once again cursed my luck; it figured that I would grab only rotten apples to aid me in my noble escape. I considered hurling the thing at the drunken lout sitting at the next table, but returned the ruined fruit to my pack instead.

"What's your business here?" I fumbled and dropped the pack. When I looked up, the harried face of the bar-keep, or the owner-I couldn't tell which, but he wore a white apron- considered me from underneath some of the largest eyebrows I had ever seen.

"I-I'm waiting for someone."

The man scowled. "We don't want waiters. Wait outside if you must, but we don't want your kind here."

I turned my head slightly towards the lantern light, hoping the light would catch the grey of my eyes or at least my pale Swedish complexion.

"My kind?" I said, blinking innocently.

The owner/bar-keep shifted uneasily on his feet, confused as his notions of gypsiehood jarred with my appearance.

"Look," I said, fishing under my shirt collar. I extracted the gold chain and held it up for him to see. "I mean no harm. Really, I don't. All I want is a room for the night and some quiet. Can you guarantee that if I give you this?"

From a distance, the only worth in the gold chain appeared to be in the material. On closer inspection, it was a remarkable work of artistry. Three layers of pure gold had been manipulated like a braid, twisting around one another to make an infinite road of a holy relic. Lady Simonette's taste had always been somewhat gaudy, and why she had carried this among the more garish ornaments in her carriage was inexplicable.

My heart ached a little as it swayed before the bar-keep's greedy gaze. It was such a lovely thing, and Raoul's ring by its side only served to compact its beauty. I would not give him that, but I let him take in his fill, his eyes growing more interested with every innocent swing.

He reached out and rubbed it between his fingers.

"Is this yours?"

No.

"Yes."

He clearly didn't believe me, but his greed overcame his morals. His fist closed around the cross and I felt him begin to pull, as if to tear it from my hand.

"Wait!" I said, pulling it back to me for safety. "Do I have your word?"

The man scratched his cheek and looked back to the bar, where a busty red-head was serving drinks. The man caught her eye and when she nodded, he turned back to me again and grinned.

"You have the word of Remy, lady. We'll even give you the finest room in the place and a nice hot meal-"

Raucous laughter, louder then anything I'd heard so far, interrupted the man's empty promises. At a table close to the entrance, surrounded by expertly painted flirts, was a lordly man puffing away at a cigar and tossing money at a young girl dancing on the table.

The bar-keep swore and let go of the necklace. Before leaving me, he barked, "Wait here."

Remy was a rather wiry fellow, but he was larger than the dancing girl and easily pulled her from the table. She squirmed and shrieked as he shoved her behind the bar. Everyone, myself included, leaned towards the scuffle, in hopes of witnessing something truly dreadful. But nothing more happened. The girl continued to mutter over the personal injustices inflicted upon her, while the lordly man turned his attention to a blonde on his knee. Remy all but forgot about me and went back to keeping his costumers on the high side of consciousness.

I wanted desperately to go to bed, but with Remy in his current mood, I did not dare. There was nothing left for me to do but sit where I was. Though I knew I would only regret it in the morning, I almost wished I had one of the towering tankards of ale the men so enjoyed. At least it would give me something to do, something to focus on while I toiled away at this table.

I rested my chin on my hand and let my eyes sweep over the room. Nothing to do, nothing to see. Nothing even remotely interesting was happening, save that the lordly man had decided the blonde needed a good tickling. He was not that handsome; if not for the fine clothes, he would be rather ugly. Everyone present had an obvious reason for being here, most to temporarily escape the toils of life. Why _he_ was here was not as readily apparent, but I had a feeling it had more than a little to do with his present company.

I sighed. It wasn't any of my business anyway. I held my free hand to the light, idly wiggling the fingers to cast different shades as the gas slowly burned away above me. This was neither an intelligent diversion, or an amusing one: it was simply a mindless activity to keep my consciousness occupied.

It was also tiring me. My eyelids began to droop, and soon it became nearly painful for me to keep them open. It was easier to just let them fall than keep up the fight…

Laughter woke me, or maybe it was my face slamming into the table when my support arm gave out. Luckily no one saw me. The drama that everyone had been so eager for earlier, had erupted in a most embarrassing way.

The young dancing girl had somehow made her way back to the rich man, bypassing the blonde and taking residency in his lap. Her method of entertaining him had intensified. I blushed and averted my eyes as a hand, first caressing his whiskered cheek, traveled down his neck and past his stomach.

I did not consider myself a prude, though wanton displays of affection did make me uncomfortable, but this went beyond the accepted standards of even the loosest people. Remy, apparently felt the same. He left his patrons gaping at the display and crossing the room, he yanked the young girl off the man's lap.

Shouting with indignation, the girl shoved a rather large purse in the Remy's face. "Look, father, look how much! More than you make in a month!"

Her father took the purse, went back to the man and handed it to him.

"I'm sorry, monsieur, my daughter can't take your money. Have a drink on me instead."

He might as well have raised a red flag in front of a bull. No man can resist what they cannot have, and the noble actions of the father served only to pique the man's interest.

"Come now, man, she'll be in good hands and look," he dug into his waist-coat pocket and extracted even more money, "you'll have more than enough to see you through to next year."

He dropped the money in Remy's hand and patted him on the cheek. The man raised his arm at the girl, and casting a glance at her father, she took the man's arm and allowed him to escort her up the stairs.

Behind me, somewhere lost in the smoke, I heard the voices of customers, all a bit more sober after that little show.

"That's 'Monsieur-High-and-Mighty' for you, always takes whatever he wants."

"Yeah, poor Remy."

"Remy's not poor no more, man. Not with that fellow's money."

"You know it ain't his. All that squandering is going to get him into trouble one day. I heard..."

I stopped listening. Remy was standing where the couple left him, clutching the money. He stood stiff and unmoving, until he seemed to return to himself. Pocketing the money, he returned to his place behind the bar, and went back to work.

His daughter had been only a child, no more than eighteen . She had a father and an income to see her, if not comfortable, at least survivable. Yet she had gone along with that man as if it were a game. I had seen mere children on the streets cry hysterically as they were taken in the dark corners of alleys or even a private room if they were lucky. They were seasoned veterans of the trade and they still died a little each and every time a man with money to spare looked their way.

That could be me. Easily. I could see myself painted and miserable, casting practiced glances of invitation at men as they passed me on the street. And because I thrived on self-loathing, I imagined a man, all gloss and finery, pressing a coin into my palm and saying, "You know, you look like a Comtess I once knew."

I shot out my seat, my chair falling behind me, startling the sleeping man from his stupor.

Damn it all, what on earth was I doing? I had security, a 'family' of sorts to protect me, and I had fled because I could not bear a second proposal from a man I thought I had destroyed.

This, though, this was not a proposal bent of a desperate loneliness. It was not even an appeal for marriage, but an offer of safety. _A marriage in name and nothing more… _The Erik I knew would never allow himself forced into anything and once again, I wondered what had happened at the fire-circle. Seven years was long enough to weave new secrets. He might need the anonymity of the Gypsies as much as I did. But what information did they have that would oblige an expert deviant into such a horribly ironic event?

There was time enough to think of all that later, much later after we… married. I could do this. _We_ could do this. Aishe would just have to live with disappointment for a while.

Remy's daughter floated back down the stairs at that time, smiling at patrons as she made her way towards her father at the bar

"He wants a drink," she said. Remy didn't answer, polishing a spotless mug. The girl shrugged and obtained the drink herself, treading delicately between tables as she made her way back toward the stairs.

It was as good a time as any to escape, with all attention on the girl instead of me. I bent over to retrieve my pack and made the mistake of taking my eyes off my surroundings. With the appreciative barks of the patrons, and the girl's addiction to attention, she had circled into my area, flirting and blowing kisses like it was a holiday. As I came up with my bag, I collided with the girl, nearly knocking us both to the ground beneath a shower of ale.

The inn went quiet. Most of the ale that had not landed on the ground had managed to soak me fallen on me. Though I had every right to be upset, it was the girlwho threw her hands in the air, as if I had the gall to knock over her drinks on purpose.

"Bloody Gypsy!" she shouted and scrambled back up the stairs to her nobleman.

That selfish, little harlot! I had half a mind to go after her. An untimely entrance of a Gypsy would kill any romantic liaisons, no matter how much money was involved. I knew I wouldn't do it, though I entertained scenarios as I worked my way towards the entrance.

A man bumped into me. I thought nothing of it until another man did this same, this time harder. When a large man stepped directly in my path, I knew something was wrong.

"What's this?" he asked in a low voice. He was just a random bar-patron, worse for wear after a few hours of in this place, blinking like a great owl and swaying beneath the strain of his own size. No one I knew.

"Remy, what's this here?" he leaned over and tugged on one of my braids. "I thought we kept the filth in the pig-pens!"

It was an incredibly un-funny remark, but the room exploded in hails of laughter. Pleased with himself, the man gripped my hand. Forcing my fist open, he held up my necklace and examined it.

"Where did you get this nice bauble, Gypsy girl?"

"Stole it from a nun!" someone shouted from a nearby table.

"I bet," he turned his drunken eyes back on me. "If there's one thing I don't approve of more than Gypsies, it's stealing."

But Remy, lost in his own thoughts, offered no help as several of the men began to close in on me.

"If the gendarmes we're here, we'd turn you over to them. As none of them are about, _we'll_ have to teach you a lesson."

"Please," I whined, trying to back away. I had been saying that far too often lately for my taste. "Please… just leave me be."

A blood-curdling scream erupted from above us. All eyes darted to the staircase as Remy's daughter, stumbled down the stairs, white as a sheet and shaking like a leaf.

"He's dead!" she screamed. "He's dead! He's dead! Oh Lord, I found him dead!"

Here was my chance. If I did not go now, I never would. I made a dash for the door and left behind my necklace and pack. Small sacrifices, even if I would mourn the loss of the signet ring.

Commotion erupted behind the inn door in loud shouts and screams as I slammed it behind me. I set off on a brisk walk down the street, barely keeping myself from breaking into another out-and-out run.

The sun was just beginning to show on the horizon. An early morning light or two was aglow in shops as the town began to wake. A baker was arranging fresh bread in his front-window, and next door a young man was rolling a barrel across the street towards the local butcher's shop. I spotted a group of horses tied to a post in front of another inn, and slowly, I approached. It seemed I truly was becoming a Gypsy, because I felt no remorse as I untied the closest mare and led her away from the post.

Without a platform, or another person to give me a leg up, I was forced to mount the horse by myself. I nearly fell the first time from my weak arm, but on the second attempt, my right arm was just strong enough to get me on top. The original owner had not even bothered to unsaddle her, and the crude dressage looked like it had been made somewhere around the time horses were first domesticated. The fit was far too small for such a broad-backed animal, and it must have been terribly painful for her. I would have removed it myself, then and there, but I could not afford to loose any more time. I silently promised to make it up to her later.

She was a gentle creature, and she needed little incentive from me, as I guided her onto the street. As we did, I heard the distant sound of hoof beats moving at an alarming rate. My horse began to pace nervously. I tried calming her and in doing so, turned too late to see the approaching rider.

At least, I thought was a rider. It moved so fast, that all I saw was a flash of white and black; it could have been anything. It was heading for the young man in the street, rolling the barrel. Abandoning his task, he dove for the side of the road just as the other horse took a giant leap over the cask.

My horse neighed, rearing as I held on for dear life. The rider was out of view within seconds, leaving the boy and me in hysterics. I tugged on the reins and did my best to speak soothingly, but it came out in a line of incoherent, frightened babbling.

The horse eventually calmed. The boy, still laying in the middle of the road, raised his fist and shouted, "Bastard!" at the absent aggravator.

We shared a moment of outraged indignation at the rider. When it was over, the boy went back to his work, righting the toppled barrel, and I turned my horse to head back to my camp.

I did not have to tell myself I was doing the right thing: I felt it. The worry I carried as I crossed the inn threshold was a forgotten memory. My anxiety over my up-coming nuptials, though, remained and blossomed.

Erik's living wife… how was such a thing possible?

I would have never been able to find my way back had it not been as light as it was. Fresh dawn was not easy to see in, but it provided a support as I picked my way back to the campsite. Once I had, I hurriedly found my caravan and tied the horse next to a confused, and oddly awake, Averroës. I slipped back into the family caravan and breathed a sigh of relief when I found everyone still abed. Djano, Jal, Dika, Chivali, the boys, and Aishe, all sleeping where I had left them. Tip-toeing on silent feet, I found my bedding on the floor next to Aishe, and went to sleep as if I had been there all along.

* * *

__

_**A/N:**__ Princess Bride reference not accidental. Gotta love that movie. _

_Don't own that or Phantom. Dang._

_Reviews make my day, please leave one._


	24. Worth of Bride

**Chapter #23**

**Worth of a Bride**

I was warm and content, wrapped in my blankets and a pleasant dream, when I was suddenly doused in icy water.

Too shocked to scream, I lay frozen with my mouth open while tremors began to work their way up my body. When my hands started to shake, I sat up. At first I saw nothing, images swimming past my eyes in a blur of unidentifiable colors, and I feared Erik's clever little trick from —God, was it only yesterday?— might have damaged me permanently. But soon, the formless began to right itself, and the person staring down at me became recognizable.

I should have known.

"You're needed outside." Aishe stood above me, her face guiltless, as if she and the bucket she held were completely innocent. She let it fall to the floor and left out the side of the caravan. The bucket landed near a pile of heavy cooking ware with a very loud crash.

I supposed I should have been grateful she had not yelled.

Only a healthy dose of wisdom and a near attack were the reasons I was back here, and though it had happened mere hours ago, last night already felt years behind me. My natural scent, enhanced by an aroma of damp wool and sour ale, was evidence enough of my reckless mistake. If someone had seen me, or if the subject of where I had disappeared to came up, nothing I could say or do would disguise the truth.

It was enough to dampen my already low spirits, but on top of that, my blankets were soaked. _I_ was soaked. Aishe had planned her revenge well. I brushed the excess water from my arms as I stood. I took my time as I fanned my apron and skirt, and peeled the wet material of the blouse away from my skin. If I was needed outside, it would probably be to be reinstated as water carrier, and I was in no hurry to take that job again.

I twisted around, hunting to find the soaking knot of my apron at the small of my back and loosen it, when I knocked over a fishing pole with my elbow. As I bent to retrieve it, my hip collided with the heavy cooking ware, and scattered a box of clothes pins across the floor. Every spare inch of the already cramped caravan was packed with all manner of items usually left outside. My mind was still sluggish after being dragged out of a very deep sleep, but the meaning of all this was available to even the slowest mind: the troupe would be moving again, and soon.

I gave up on my apron and headed outside. The usual bustle and confusion of camp life was completely absent. Only Jal's fire pit remained, with the lady herself and several other Gypsies conversing quietly at the edge of the blackened circle.

My intended was also, uncharacteristically, present. Erik stood apart from the rest, near the tree line, watching the progress of two squirrels as they built a nest.

A light wind blew through the trees and set me shaking again. I gripped my elbows to stop the trembling, and the movement attracted the attention of everyone around the pit, including Erik on his own by the trees.

They had seen me bloody, bruised, blind, and now soaking wet. Was it too much to ask that, just once, I could present a decent face?

Jal came towards me.

"Christine?" she said, picking at the damp sleeve that clung to one of my elbows.

"Ummm… I'm fine. Just—" I waved my hand in the air. I doubted they would accept a severe case of night-sweats as an excuse.

Her nostrils flared, but at least she did not comment on my smell. She led me to the pit and sat me down. Djano was at my right, working a thick piece of wood with a hand-knife, and across the fire, a young couple I had seen on occasion huddled next to one another, whispering.

Erik's arms were folded across his chest, and unconsciously, I did the same.

It did not feel as if this were a casual gathering. In fact, the mood was rather tense. I would think Erik would stay away from these situations, and this presence did not make any sense to me…

…unless this wasn't casual … unless it was necessary. There was only one reason that would explain all this, and the thought of it made me forget all about the chill.

So this was it, then? I had been given no time frame, but I had thought —hoped— I would have at least a few days before… before I was married again.

The company around the pit grew as we were joined by an elderly man with a full beard. He nodded to everyone and took a seat next to the young couple. Djano dropped his knife and set aside the fragile bit of wood that showed the beginnings of a pipe.

"Christine, do you know who these people are?" Jal asked. I recognized them more than I knew who they were. The young man was something of an acrobat, performing fantastic stunts during fairs. The young woman was his wife and far enough into a pregnancy that I never saw her on her feet. I sometimes forgot how young Gypsies married and these two could not be any older than sixteen. The man with the beard had been the one to cut my chains on my first day in the camp. If I was asked to give their names, I would be hard pressed to find an answer.

Jal arranged her skirts in neat and tidy folds about her ankles, "Luca and his wife Mariela. Her father, Emilian is Djano's brother. They're here to act as family to…" she looked over at Erik and I swear I saw her shudder, "…to your intended."

Erik left his distant vantage point to sit near the fire. He sat more than an arm's length away from the young couple, who fidgeted and squirmed in their seats across from me. I looked at my ageless intended, and his teenage 'parents' and started to fidget myself.

Almost immediately, the awkward silence erupted into a heated conversation. Unfortunately for me, it was all conducted in the Gypsy language. My proficiency had accelerated to the point where I could recognized some words beyond "_Gadjí_" or "_Mulani_" if spoken at a slower pace, but there as nothing slow about this.

I was beginning to fear that when it ended I would have missed my own wedding, when a single word from Erik stopped everyone.

He spoke to the Gypsies in slow and clear French, "Let's not forget this involves her as well," he indicated me, "and as she is only a recent Gypsy, it is best to continue so that she can understand all that is being said about her."

Erik's eyes met mine, flashing with a knowing glint. He sensed what I was thinking, and it amused him. _Amused_ him!!

Djano gave Erik a long look. Then, he turned his gaze to me.

"Christine," he said, not unkindly, "stand up."

I did.

"Now turn …please."

And I did that too, slowly like a chunk of meat over a fire. There were speculating looks from everyone present, some positive, some not, I rotated again and again before I was told to sit.

"Three is more than fair," Emilian declared. "She has little understanding of our ways compared to him, and I think they're getting a rather poor deal."

"Poor deal!" Jal cried, mightily offended. She reached over and yanked up my skirt, displaying my long, pale calves nearly to the knee. "Look at these legs! This is a strong girl. And see how quickly she recovered? You'll get at least five brawny children out of her in the next few years, I promise."

If there was a just and merciful God, he would have struck me dead then.

"Did you see her with the horse?" He waved his hand in Averroës' direction, who was chewing contently on some spare grass by the caravan. "She's better than most of our boys and I'd wager she can get better. It'll an insult if I accept any less than five!"

"She's unclean," one argued.

"And so is he," countered another.

I leaned into Jal, seated on my right and whispered, "What is going on? What's all this arguing about?"

"They're negotiating your _darro_," she never took her eyes off the men. "…your bride price."

Jal soon was drawn into the debate, and I wondered, why bother? Fortune was no longer mine and my intended had already agreed to the match. This arguing and bartering was wasted air.

The negotiations were winding down. Despite Erik's thoughtfulness, I had barely paid attention. Whatever they had been arguing over initially, it was decided I was worth five.

"Then it's settled." Jal pulled me to my feet as everyone stood. Djano and the young man shook hands and the deal was finalized. I waited, expecting for a grand finale to this little opera, when Jal poked me in the ribs.

"Do you have a gift?" she whispered, though everyone heard. Seeing my confusion, Jal continued, "A gift… for him."

"Oh. If…ah.. if you'll only wait here…" I stammered, untangling myself from Jal's arms.

Shoes? Jewelry? Without my chain, I had absolutely no wealth. Even if I had, a cross was hardly appropriate for him. I was ready to give up, and complain I'd had no warning, when something caught my eye.

Tied next to Averroës was the horse I had stolen last night. At the time, I had had neither the time nor the light to take in the soft brown and white of her coat, or the unusual curl to her mane. She was beautiful, but where Averroës' visage was noble, the mare was earthy and strong. She could not have been less suited for a man like Erik, yet his she would be, as my wedding gift to him.

I untied her and led her back to the fire circle. Smiles and nods greeted us. In their eyes, I must have chosen well.

"A good breed," Djano said, coming over to inspect the horse himself. He opened her mouth and examined the large, yellow teeth. "Young too. A fine gift."

I held the reins out to Erik and gave him my best smile.

"For you," I said sweetly, batting my lashes. Erik's left hand flexed, but he gave away nothing else as he took in his gift.

His eyes narrowed as he took the reins and issued a very cordial, "Thank you."

There was never a merrier party than this, even if the bride and groom were morose. Djano slapped me on the back and Jal kissed me on my cheek. The young couple each hugged me individually and welcomed me to their family.

No one hugged or welcomed Erik; no one even glanced his way.

"Then it's all settled," Djano said again, happily. "Once this whole business is passed, we'll have a wedding. Come, let's finish this properly."

Luca held a bottle, wrapped in a brightly colored red scarf, with a chain of gold coins, glittering in the sun, hanging from around its neck. With Jal's help, cups filled with the drink were given to everyone.

Always wine. I did not see what was wrong with milk, or even water. Every transaction seemed to be finalized with this strange bouquet.

Everyone drained their drinks quickly, with the exception of myself. I held mine loosely in my hand, just on the edge of my fingertips where it could easily drop.

I could not avoid my drink, though. My future in-laws, and now my parents were watching me, waiting for me to finalize the agreement. As I raised it to my lips, the fruit and spices already swirling in my nose, Erik came to stand before me. He held his drink aloft.

"To the future," the icy silk of his voice, so powerful and so illustrious. I copied his actions and drank to our future, together.

"Future," I said, "whatever it may be."

As soon as I drank the last drop, there were a few quick goodbyes, and then, Jal, Djano, and future my in-laws all scattered in the directions of their own homes. Djano went fix a leaky hole in the roof and Jal went to take down her wet laundry from the line. I thought of my own still damp clothing, and wished I had been given an extra set of clothes

"You seem perturbed, Madame. Is something on your mind?"

I could not suppress the satisfaction I received from seeing him with such a ridiculously inappropriate horse; nevertheless, he probably knew what was happening where as I did not.

"When I saw you and everyone here, I thought we would be married right now."

"Disappointed?"

I snorted. "No, just confused."

"It will pass," he tightened his hold on the reins. "Does my gift have a name?"

Of all the names in the entire world, there was only one I could think appropriate.

"Carmen."

The Erik I had known was not one to be joked with, and this one was not either. Instead, he announced to the remaining Gypsies that he wished to walk with me before the troupe departed. Most, including the young couple, only wished to get as much distance as possible, but Jal, my Jal, objected.

"I will not have her walking alone with you."

"I assure you, Madame, she will be perfectly safe."

But Jal was not having any of it. Arms crossed and face like stone, one could see that she would be a formidable mother once her own children starting courting.

"She will be safe from all _but_ you. You think I don't know these things? I was young and betrothed once myself. Aishe!" Erik's apprentice appeared from behind a wagon, where she had probably been listening for hours.

"Yes?"

"Follow these two. And don't take long," she said pointedly at the two of us. "We go in an hour and I'm not leaving anyone behind."

With a cordial nod of his head, Erik issued a "Good-day" to Jal, and headed towards his tent, gift in tow.

All over the camp, Gypsies were packing, loading, and uprooting their small lives as time pressed down upon them. Few bothered to look my way, yet they seemed to actively shrink away from _Mulani's_ presence.

Erik circled to the outside of the camp, near the forest's edge, away from the border of the city. I fell behind his long strides and Aishe lingered even farther back, enough for privacy, but close enough that we both knew she was there.

I plucked at my damp sleeves, wishing I had at least a blanket for warmth or some privacy, because I still did not know what he confided in his young protégé.

There was nothing left where his ominous black canvas fortress had stood. Not even the surrounding caravans and circular tents were still there. Two large bags lay near the base of the tree, but the rest of the Gypsies had cleared out entirely.

Erik set to work removing the ill-fitting saddle from his gift, and mounting his luggage on Carmen's back. He paid me little heed until he finally acknowledged my presence with an unyielding, "We're leaving."

"I know that," I snapped, already on my defense

He tied his last bag and led the horse into the forest. I followed, as did Aishe, but she bypassed us to explore a giant rock shaped like a perfectly balanced mushroom, overlooking one of the many ponds of Huelgoat.

I had walked here only yesterday, but I had not noticed how thick the forest was compared to the clearing only a few steps away. If I looked back in the direction of what was left of the camp, I could barely see through the foliage and if any of the Gypsies loading their caravans looked this way, I doubted they would be able to see me.

Erik ignored Aishe, and turned all of his attention to me.

"Yes, I thought you would know that, just as I'm sure you know why the troupe is breaking up, and what happened back at your family's caravan too."

I felt my face burn. I thought they had simply agreed on our union and my _darro_, but apparently I had missed something.

"Look behind you, Comtess. You'll see why your Gypsies move so swiftly."

Many caravans and tents were leaving, heading in different directions as if there were no connection between them. The few that tarried were quickly tying up loose ends and would soon be gone as well. Wandering the thinning grounds was a sight very unwelcome. A man, likely the local law enforcement, and with him was Remy, my greedy, cowardly bartender and father of a loose young woman.

There were few left for them to talk to and even fewer willing to speak. They cornered a child, a woman, anyone they could find and seemed to question them for several moments before moving onto the next. That cold, dark feeling of terror returned to my body, and once again, it was not from my damp clothes that I began to shudder.

"There was an altercation last night at an inn, and a man was found dead. The murder of a wealthy man is highly suspect; find him dead while Gypsies sleep outside of your town, and suspicions are abated. Or, at least, redirected."

"It couldn't have been a Gypsy—"

My mind screamed '_stop!'_ just in time to save myself. My face would give me away more than words, and I kept it turned away from him, towards the men scouring the Gypsies.

"It's unfair," I finished lamely.

He ignored the remark. "The troupe will divide and meet again in a few days time, once they are sure it is safe. And then…"

He did not need to finish, but after a pause he continued, "Jal and Djano will find themselves in possession of five new chickens to fill the void left by your absence."

Five chickens. My dowry. Insulting enough, though I did not think being worth more would make me feel any better.

"And your people? Your young man and woman?" I asked, keeping my eyes on Remy. "What do they get?"

The bar-keep and the magistrate drifted out of view, and with their absence the Gypsies packed quicker than before. That deep-rooted sense of survival for them was first, last, and always.

"You know very well they're not my people, Madame."

I sighed and rubbed my hands against my upper arms to bring them some warmth. "Then who is, Erik? If not Gypsies, why are you here?"

I had asked myself the same question many times, and now I felt as though I meant it for myself alone. When I looked at him again, this man so altered and yet essentially the same, for the first time it was only him present in those yellow eyes, and I thought at last, perhaps he saw me.

"I owe you a gift." He handed me a black velvet pouch. It was light and very small. I felt no need to open it now and I thought perhaps he did not want me to while he was there. "The troupe is splitting up and will meet again in a few days time. Until then, keep to your caravan and stay out of sight."

It was his own version of good-bye and with another polite nod, he walked away. Within moments, the forest swallowed him completely and I was left with Aishe watching me from atop the giant stone mushroom.

She hopped down and walked towards me; any malice or anger I expected from her did not show on her face. And why should it? If she feared any affection lingering between me and her lover, our cold conversation was more than sufficient proof of our feelings. She looked down at my closed hand and I jealously kept my fist closed so she would not see.

"Come," she said. "You'll need dry bandages."

She too walked past me and disappeared towards the caravan. I followed behind, tripping and stumbling since I was still not used to going bare-foot and trying to keep my eyes open for Remy. Last I had seen them, they were circling the west side of the camp; I took the east.

Had I returned a few seconds later, they might have left without me. Jal, Djano, Aishe, and all the children were packed and waiting in their caravan. All our neighbors had already left, and the few that remained were about to leave themselves.

As I climbed onto the back ledge, Jal stuck her head out of the back door and gave me a quick once-over. I don't know what she might have expected to happen in the time I was gone, but she certainly did not find it.

Our caravan pulled out first, and then half a dozen others followed in line behind us. I saw a change in my little family, and those accompanying us and I was suddenly at peace. Traveling was what these people did best and as long as we kept moving, I could assume I was safe from Remy. Averroës welcomed the exercise too; there was a spring in his step as he trailed along the side of the caravan, tied on a lead along with a few other horses. It would be nice to get some distance between us and that unhappy place, even if it brought me closer and closer to my new marriage.

It was only then that I remembered the gift. I still clutched the velvet pouch in my hand, though I had forgotten it in all the commotion. Slowly, I untied the knot and reached inside.

In the distance, I heard a horse's hooves pounding away at the earth as it made its escape. It might be Erik, or it might not. It might be Remy come to get me, it might not. It hardly mattered anymore anyway, because in the pouch was my cross and signet ring.

* * *

_**A/N:** Dear readers, you're all worth at least fifty chickens to me! Sorry for the delay._

_Please be kind and leave a review._


	25. Spirits and Voices

**Chapter #24**

**Spirits and Voices**

I was sure I could live with the bruises on my thighs, but the ones blossoming on my rear were another matter. They weren't particularly painful on their own, but the persistent nudge in that area each time Averroës took a fresh step was dampening my joy in riding him considerably.

"Christine, get off that horse. What will I do if you get sick?" Ever since my initiation and the engagement, Jal had been taking her new role as my adoptive mother very seriously.

Memories of my real mother were more of an image, a vague idea, than a physical being. Jal was a corporeal mammoth, moving into my life with a searing presence that made her reasons for pressing on me so, impossible to ignore.

I would, after all, be married any day now.

"I feel fine, Jal, really. I'll come down to help you in a little while." For a moment, it seemed that she wasn't going to let me go so easily, but the demands of baskets and babies were more important than me at the moment, and she disappeared back into the side of the caravan.

I sighed and rubbed my nose. The skin was red and tender after days of riding under the open sky, yet the pain was nothing compared to the itch.

No one seemed to suffer this ailment except me; Jal, Djano, all their children, and the rest of our whittled band of Gypsies all sported a healthy golden glow. Djano's children huddled on the back ledge of the caravan, under the cool shade of the overhang, sitting on a much more forgiving surface than a thin blanket and a horse's bony back.

Dika caught my longing gaze and shoved one of her brothers farther down the bench. She smiled and patted the space beside her.

The dense, rocky ground of Brittany never let you forget where you were. A shaky step over the craggy rocks jolted my seat and my resolve, and nearly sent my polite refusal from my mind.

I knew I should join Jal in basket-making, or keep Dika company and let her play with my hair, but I had to keep riding. My stubborn insistence on riding Averroës had little to do with any question of my ability. Rather, by staying atop Averroës, I was telling everyone in no uncertain terms, that he belonged to me.

The first three days after the split at Huelgoat, a single-minded determination encompassed us all, so that nothing mattered so much as putting as much distance between us and Huelgoat as possible. I had sat with Dika, Calmo and Tas on that bench, with our legs dangling over the ledge. The boys threw clumps of dirt at the road behind us, and laughed when they exploded under the hooves of the lead horse in the preceding caravan. But, as is often the case with young boys forced to stay still for too long, they soon began to pick on each other as well as the horses. A small disagreement between them quickly morphed into a full-blown confrontation where one knocked the other off the ledge, and nearly right under the front feet of that same lead horse.

It was decided then that too many people were occupying the small space, and some would have to change their seating arrangement: Tas rode in the front of the caravan with his father, and I was to ride a horse.

At first, I was thrilled! I sat straight and proud on my mount, looking down at everyone as if I were a queen. Yet one day turned into another, and another, and another, until finally I was slumped and bruised in the saddle. I would have given up long ago, if not for the occasional sideways glances Brishen threw my way.

"Christine, come inside!" I started so quickly that I accidentally tugged back on Averroës' reins. The horse slowed considerably, and it was only luck that I had not been in front of another caravan.

Aishe leaned out the side of the caravan as it slowly inced away from me, and grinned.

"The baskets can't be so important," I said, kicking the horse's sides, "I'll come help in a while. I promise."

Despite my sore nether regions, it really was a lovely day. The air was clean, the sun was light on my face and warm in my mouth. If the weather continued as beautiful and crisp as it was now, I might never go inside, despite my burnt nose.

"Actually, they are. They're for your dowry, and if your in-laws don't receive gifts in return, you'll be shaming the family."

I turned in my saddle and glanced behind me. Most of future in-laws were three caravans behind us. Luca and Mariela sat in front, with her father, Emilian. The only thickness on that poor young woman was her pregnant belly: the rest of her was painfully thin and ghostly pale. There were probably more important things in their lives than the quality of baskets in my dowry.

Still, it would be nice to rest out of the saddle for a while… So, making an appearance of a gesture…

"Will you help me?"

Aishe _humphed_, but did not go inside. I rode Averroës as close to the caravan as I dared and brought him to a reluctant halt. It would be world's easier if I launched myself from the horse straight into the caravan, yet the prospect of Aishe's helping arms, and my own tormented body, called for a much humbler trick.

I had to move quickly, or risk holding up the troupe. With a wince, I swung my leg over the side of Averroës' back and slid to the ground. I kept a firm grip on the bridle to keep myself from sliding all the way down, but I did not have time to waste. The caravan was still moving. Scrambling on shaky feet, I led my horse to the back ledge. The children were watching me, and I imagined I was quite entertaining as I attempted to keep up with the caravan, lead my horse, and secure his reins amongst the rattling bouquet of hanging pots.

My legs were failing fast. With one last pull, I tightened the leather strap. I moved abruptly to the side, out of the way of the horse, and saw Aishe, still waiting for me, albeit impatiently. I forced myself to run towards her and if it had not been for an extended hand and a good catch on her part, I might have fallen by the wayside. She pulled me in, and left before I had a chance to thank her.

There was hardly a square inch of space in the caravan unoccupied by box, basket, or tool. It was quite a feat that Aishe was able to catch and drag me inside when there was barely enough room for herself.

Even so, Jal's caravan had become something of a meeting place for the older women of the troupe. They sat on boxes, shoved the tools out of the way, and huddled together without any apparent care for comfort.

"Ah! Christine! Come here." My future grandmother-in-law patted a pile of blankets beside her expectantly.

"Oh no you don't!" Jal countered. "I need her to hold the baby. And until that damn _Mulani_ shows up, she's still mine!"

Several of the women laughed; I shuddered and saw Aishe frown. I carefully tip-toed over the equipment and assembled women to make my way towards Jal, and no sooner had I gotten close, than Jal shoved Chivali into my arms.

"Jal, I really don't think…"

"Just hold her until I finish. She's cutting her teeth and she'll wail if someone isn't holding her."

"Takes after her mother!" Someone called, and the room exploded in another fit of laughter.

"Keep it up, Rizka, and you'll be the one crying."

I sat down as gently as possible without jostling the baby or hurting myself. Chivali stared up at me with her wide, dark eyes, as equally shocked to be held by me as I was to find her in my arms. I could not remember the last time I had held a child, and that familiar stab of shame I expected from a baby was curiously absent. I looked down at the little round face, utterly fascinated.

The pudgy features held brown eyes darting here and there, occasionally moving in response to sounds from her clan. There was a keen intelligence there, and I found myself wondering how much she understood without being able to say a word.

"I hope you have a strong charm for the night of your wedding, Christine."

"Excuse me?" I croaked, looking up from the baby to see a merry glint in my grand-mother-in-law's eyes.

"Have babies as soon as possible and your husband will leave you alone. The more the better! Tsura here has five of her own and her husband barely notices her. Ask him and he couldn't even tell you she's a woman!"

I felt Jal put her free-hand on my arm, "Quit trying to frighten the poor child. Don't you remember what it was like for you? I swear, on _my_ wedding night I was afraid to let Djano breathe, let alone touch me."

"I wouldn't let Emilian anywhere near me. Only time I did touch him was to slice his hand and wipe it on the sheets. If you ask me, it's better she learns from us than some other way." The laughter and merriment stopped suddenly, and the air grew cold. Everyone turned a critical eye my way as Jofranko leaned forward and asked, "Have you ever known a man before, _Gadjí_?"

On his lower back, Raoul had a birthmark shaped like a hazy sun. With his golden skin, his hair like rays of light, he was always summer to me. I remembered running my fingertips over the mark as he slept, in those warm, safe hours in our bed. I suddenly inhaled so sharply, I choked on my own saliva.

Jal slapped me on the back and the baby started to cry. I started rocking her in my arms as a distraction, but everyone was still watching, still waiting, when the baby's cries had subsided.

"Not one," I managed.

Relief seemed to washed over the entire party. Jal went back to her basket, several of the other women engaged each other in smaller, trivial conversation, and Jofranko smiled at me.

"Don't look so stricken, Christine, I'm sure he will be kind to you. Let him do what he will and you'll be used to it in time."

"God willing," I said wryly. As if he would want to be anywhere near me.

A good wife does what her husband wants. She goes to him when he calls her, she looks the other way when he seeks someone else. Aishe sat silently in the corner, watching me, her needle disappearing through the threat with each violent stab.

The baby was sleeping quietly in my arms, and the chatter lessened to a gentle buzzing. Jal's hands still worked furiously at the basket, and Aishe appeared to be sewing herself a new skirt from blue linen. The atmosphere was calming and I soon found myself blinking away mid-afternoon exhaustion; When it happened, I hardly noticed that the caravan had stopped completely.

No one else seemed to realize it either, until Djano stuck his head in through the side and commanded his wife outside. The urgency in his voice was enough to drive everyone else to follow. I would have gone myself, but my body was enjoying the cushion of the pile of blankets far too much to allow me to move.

The back door opened, and again, Djano stuck his head inside. This time, though, he was looking for me.

He never spoken to me directly, outside of my meeting before the _Kris_, and it seemed he didn't know how to now. He looked between me and the baby in my arms before finally speaking.

"Christine, I need you to take the children."

"Oh? I-" I never knew what was appropriate to call him. Jal did not mind me using her given name, but it did not feel right to do the same for him. And I would never use 'father' for anyone other than my own. "I don't speak Romany. If something happens, they won't understand me. Wouldn't Aishe be a better choice?"

He shook his head. "She's needed now. You're the only one we can spare."

"Monsieur, what's going on?"

"It's…it's Mariela: the baby's coming."

"That's wonderful news!"

He climbed into the caravan and paced, wringing his hands. "It's too early and we don't have the right people with us." He ran his hand through his graying hair and I saw that his jaw was as tight as a clenched fist. "The children need to be shielded from this. Take them and play in the hills until my niece is out of danger."

"Certainly," I said. I had been fearful he would ask me to assist in the birthing process, and I knew I did not have the stomach for it. "But, monsieur-"

He put a hand on my shoulder and gave me a small smile. "Don't worry. Child's play doesn't need any language. Just keep them safe."

I could not argue with such a show of confidence. Djano climbed out the back and I went out the side. As I did, I found eight pairs of large, brown eyes staring up at me eagerly.

It was difficult to climb out of the caravan with a baby in my arms, but I managed. One little girl chewed on her braid, and Jal's twin boys were already shoving one another. Taking a deep breath, I smiled and prepared my best 'matronly' voice.

"Well, children, what shall we do?"

The boys immediately took off in the direction of the hills. The girls looked at one another, and did the same.

When I called after them, the little girls slowed their pace slightly to accommodate me, the boys were long gone.

My slim, womanly figure, while once a source of great pride, was not doing me any favors at the moment as I scrambled after them. Hardly a five minute run, and already I was out of breath. The girls laughed and skipped far ahead of me, while the baby felt as if she was getting heavier by the minute.

We came to a small, steep hill, and the children sprinted up it like little mountain goats. I stood at the foot of it.

"Christine! Come," Dika was already halfway up the hill and waving at me to hurry. I looked at Chivali, still staring straight back with her wide, trusting eyes.

I sighed and tightening my hold on the child, I started my climb.

My legs were shaking and my lungs ached. Chivali began to cry and I held her tighter, lest I drop her. I began counting, only to distract myself from the climb. _Twelve, thirteen, fourteen…_ and at seventeen, I reached the top.

I sunk in a dead sprawl onto the grass and put the baby on my stomach. The sun became cooler and my erratic breathing slowed, my body eventually relaxing into its normal rhythm. I would have fallen asleep, but I felt a tiny mouth, sans any teeth, began to gnaw on my chin.

I lifted her above me and Chivali chortled with laughter.

"Like that, don't you? Would you like to marry Erik too?" Apparently, this was not a completely loathsome idea, because she continued to laugh, until a butterfly passed over my head and stole her attention from me completely.

I lay the baby on my stomach again and let her amuse herself with the scenery, the loose folds of my clothing, even the signet right that she managed to pluck out from the safety of my bodice. My eyes were growing heavy, and right before I gave up the fight and closed them, three little girly faces bent over me.

"Up!" Dika commanded, and I obeyed. My greatest wish at the moment was that I wouldn't be invited to join the boys in their game of 'chase one another with large pointed sticks'; instead, I felt tiny hands on my head, untying and loosening my braids.

Living as rough as I had, without luxurious creams, or maids, to bring my curls to their full glory, my hair had gone limp, alternating between half-hearted curls and messy waves. It was longer now, and just reached my lower back. The weight of it was unbearable in this heat, but it was easier to leave it long and wild, rather than attempting a shorter and more fashionable style.

It was perfect for the girl's play, as I found when Dika and the other two girls combed and braided my hair with their tiny hands with the tenderness only a child is capable of. I sighed, and felt the cares leave my body and float away like dandelions' down in the afternoon sun

"What's your name?" I asked one of the girls. The little thing blushed and tried to move behind me where I could not see her. "It's alright. I'm Christine. Christine."

I patted my chest, much the same way Dika had when she first introduced herself to me, and the little girl finally smiled and said, "Mala."

"Mala," I repeated. "Hello. And you?"

The other girl, looked similar enough in age and appearance to be Mala's twin, yet she had more confidence in herself, suggesting a later age.

"Violca," she said, not bothering to stop her braiding.

I did not say any more, and left the girls to play with my hair to their hearts' content. Djano was right: this was easy. The children knew well enough not to go far, and they were quite apt at entertaining themselves. Hours, or maybe just minutes, seem to slip away without our notice.

I hoped Mariela was doing well. Childbirth, from what I understood, was never easy even at the best of times. If that old healer woman were with us, everything would be under control, but she had gone off with a different segment of the troupe, leaving us all alone. Erik, while I wasn't sure was versed in childbirth, might have at least been able to give her something for the pain.

The girls had run out of hair to play with and now lay around me, napping or watching the sky with drooping eyes. The boys' game seemed to calm: instead of chasing each other across the peak of the hill, they settled for throwing stones. The baby finally fell asleep in my lap, and Dika began to sing a Gypsy song with a lovely pure voice, unthreatening in the lazy summer afternoon.

We couldn't stay much longer. If we waited for someone to come fetch us, the sun might set before anyone came, and we'd be trapped in the dark away from camp. The sun was now so hot, it was nearly impossible to move as I nudged Dika, Mala, and Violca awake.

"_Kumpania_?" I said, hoping the word was close enough to "camp" for them to understand.

Dika rubbed her eyes and nodded. She called over to the boys, now napping too, and roused everyone for the journey back.

We found the camp the same as before, only now, the fear had changed to an impending sense of doom. A hastily made tent stood inelegantly at the center, the main support pole leaning to the left. I was accustomed to organization when it came to the camps. Men all sat near Djano's caravan, muttering into their beards and smoking pipes. Poor Luca was with them, red-faced and distraught, and our strong leader, Djano, had wrung his hands raw. When he saw us, he took his daughter from me and made to lead the other children back to their respective caravans. Before he left, he spoke to me.

"They'll need extra hands, go to them." He said quietly, gesturing towards the tent. A soft cry was heard and Luca clutched the arm of the man next to him.

"Is it certain?" I whispered. The shadow that passed over his face was answer enough.

Muffled sobs, and groans of pain grew louder as I approached. Blood and tears assaulted my senses as I parted the flap and entered the lop-sided tent. An urn burned near the entrance as a means to mask the overpowering scent, but it failed to do more than add a tinge of incense to the terrifying smell of blood.

Young Mariela, only fifteen-years old, was white enough to pass for dead already. She lay in the middle of the tent surrounded on all sides by weeping, wailing women. Every few moments, her body would convulse, a weak, primeval groan escaped her mouth, and the room was assaulted with another sharp tang of copper-like sweetness.

Jal's Romany encouragements were useless, anyone could see, but she kept them up as she worked furiously to save the girl, promising all manner of happy endings and fine children. No child, not even with evince protection, can survive outside the womb three months early and the growing scent of blood attested to Mariela's own chances of living another day.

I turned to leave. I had no place here, and I certainly did not want to witness what seemed inevitable, but Aishe stopped me before I could leave the tent.

"You can help," she said. On her arm was a fresh bucket of boiled water and a bloodied rag. She looked exhausted herself.

"I can't do anything," I whispered. "I'm not a healer."

"No," she agreed, "but maybe you can comfort her. It won't be long now. Hold her hand, talk to her."

It was not that I did not want to help, but "Wouldn't she rather have her mother?"

Aishe looked down at the bloody rag on her arm.

"Do you think _she _has the strength? Look at her, the woman is already half-dead with grief." Poor Jofranko. The same woman who took such delight in my embarrassment just that afternoon. She was near fainting herself, and it would probably the best thing for her if she did not have to suffer this.

"Please, Christine," Aishe begged, "do _something _for her. Just help her forget… none of us have the strength anymore."

What person with a beating heart could have said no?

I took my place near the pillows cushioning Mariela's head. Another spasm wretched her body and her eyes opened, capturing mine with a look of unimaginable anguish. I was nearly afraid to touch her, lest this ghost of death invade me as well.

"Another push, Mariela! Come on now, you're almost done and you'll have a healthy son!"

Jal handed me a wet rag and I used it to sponge the sweat from the poor girl's brow. She raised her hand and batted the thing away, the effort pathetically weak as a new contraction came upon her.

When it passed, she closed her eyes and a thick silence descended on us all.

I did not know any poignant biblical passages, and I was not good at weaving comforting words, especially at desperate times, and yet there was only one thing I knew I could do better than anyone. And if I could not ease her pain, perhaps I could make her forget, at least for a little while.

I calmed my thoughts and sought a place in my mind I had closed years ago. I found a beautiful place, but dusty with age and it was surprisingly easy to open my voice and sing:

"_Kyrie Eleison, Christe eleison…"_

Several eyes glazed, those that hadn't already closed in grief, and a few held their breath from the beauty of my song.

"_Kyrie Eleison…"_

I felt as if I were a vessel, a mere instrument from which the sound came. It had been years, and to a critical ear, there was much wanting in my voice, but I felt it rise unbidden from my body and throughout the walls of the tent.

"_Christe eleison._"

My voice trembled and rose with each note as if I held the power to keep her alive. But she was fading. With each new second, there was a little less of Mariela shining in the depths of her brown eyes.

Gypsies are not Christian unless it suits them. I did not know why I had chosen this song. Perhaps a part of me was asking for God to grant mercy on a non-believer. Yet this girl, so young, with insurmountable promises waiting for her if she just live, how could a God condemn her for an accident of birth? How could that same loving God condemn her child?

An innocent heart, a life unfulfilled, the pain of it weighed on my chest and stretched inside until I thought I might suffocate. There was no space to think about why I had not sung for years until this moment. In the burden of uncertainty, there is hope but in the shadow of death, there are only tears.

I touched her upturned hand, her fingering twitched, then stilled.

_Holy angel in heaven blessed…_

Mariela opened her eyes, and they were clear and bright as a new morning. Her hand reached for something only she could see and with a voice full of light called, "Luca!"

Then, with a sigh, Mariela lay down again. She covered the swell of her belly with both her hands, and died.

* * *

Gypsies do not bury their dead.

The spirit is what endures, and what remains when the body expires.

Mariela was cleaned, blessed with ointments and spices and laid out among dry wood and wild hay. They dressed her in her favorite skirt, one of a yellow hue, and her fingers were adorned with golden rings. Tiny Romany markings, lovingly made by her mother were painted on her temples and arms. All her treasured possessions were placed around her body to accompany her into the next life. She held a small doll from her childhood, her hair was swept back from her brow with a silver comb, and her body covered with a half-knitted baby blanket.

A message went out to other factions of the troupe, but farewells would be with only us. Time was merciless, and if we waited the possible days for the others to join us, Mariela would soon be beyond recognition. At least this way she would always be remembered as beautiful.

We gathered around the body when the sun went down while Brishen strummed a simple tune on a guitar. Her husband, inconsolable, tore at his thick hair while the parents clutched one another under the enormity of their loss. My own cheeks were damp and Aishe seemed barely able to stand, having lost what she considered a true and dear friend.

It was her husband's duty to send her away. He was given a crackling torch, and it was shook in his hand. I was surprised that the task of lighting the fire should fall to him. Collective cries rose as he approached his wife; mine was not among them.

Reluctantly, Luca pressed the torch near her feet. Sticks smoldered and gradually, the heat crawled its way through the kindling until a proper fire burst into life. Flames grew higher and higher, yet they did not touch Mariela. The rose of her cheeks returned, and for a moment, it looked as if she was simply in the grip of a peaceful sleep.

Would that she could stay this way, I might have looked back on this moment with a bittersweet fondness. _Ashes to ashes… dust to dust… Kyrie Eleison... _but the flames eventually did find her. When the scent of burning flesh grew strong, I had to go.

I asked Jal if I might leave and she nodded my dismissal. A harsh, sudden breeze threw off my step and sent the fire in a new direction. The heat licked at my back and I heard the family's vocal chants of their grief.

I took several steps, and stopped when I saw a dark figure just on the edge of the camp.

The horse was spent, shaking and lathered in sweat, still bridled from its journey. I expected a more dramatic staging for when I saw Erik again, yet he was wiping the horse down, and looking almost normal, if rather ragged in appearance.

He stopped when he saw me. He did not speak, and neither did I. I should have known he would reappear like this.

I raised my hand to wave, more out of an awkward reflex, and he returned the gesture with an easy grace. A fresh breeze brought that same horrid smell back to my attention. I fled to the dark safety of my caravan, mindful of the yellow eyes watching me. At least inside, I could escape the smell, the song, and now Erik, because his arrival meant only one thing.

A time for sorrow, and then a time for joy. What better to erase the pain of a death, than with the joy of a wedding?

* * *

**_A/N: _**Kumpania- band of families


	26. On This, My Wedding Day

**Chapter #25**

**On This, My Wedding Day**

There was no lace on my wedding day. No satin, no roses, no church. I woke up without a shy smile on my face or a gleeful anticipation in my soul.

But a weighty feeling, like a sinking stone, had finally settled in the bottom of my stomach. Curious looks and sideways glances from Gypsies over the past few days, as they reunited after Mariela's tragic death, had become more persistent. I felt as if I were missing out on something that the rest of them already knew-as if I couldn't have guessed- until finally Jal came to me and whispered the 'happy' news in my ear.

My sole consolation was that it would finally be over. After that… I suppose I would eventually stop cringing at the sound of _Madame Mulani_.

It was Jal's job, as my mother, to prepare me, and she shook me 'awake' that morning with all the tenderness of real parent.

"I-I don't think I can do this…"The entire caravan had been cleared of children and supplies for my wedding preparation. My voice echoed off the wooden walls, and when it returned to me, the sound was weak and very thin.

I still remembered Raoul's touch, I still felt him beside me while I slept. How could I marry one ghost when another still haunted me?

Jal took my head in both her rough hands and forced me to look at her. Her dark hair was graying at her temples, and the creases around her mouth became more pronounced now as she frowned. It was still a bit of shock to think that she was, at the most, ten years older than me

"You can," she said. "And you will."

A knock on the side door, and Jal released me. A group of women entered, in that sluggish way everyone had adopted recently. Several I recognized- a pale and indolent Jofranko being one of them- and several more that I should know. They all greeted me with varying degrees of enthusiasm from warm smiles to-trembling? The last one I found out later was because the woman had decided to start the celebration early by helping herself to some of the wedding wine.

Most had come out of curiosity to see the bride before her big moment, a fewer number had actually come to help me prepare.

While I was stripped and scrubbed until my skin was raw by my family, the state of my body was discussed at length by well-wishers.

"She's so skinny!" Someone laughed, pinching my hip.

"Body more like a boy's than a woman's," another agreed and I crossed my arms over my chest. Yes, I had lost more weight than I cared these last few weeks, but one could hardly keep a figure on wild vegetables and beef and not a trace of crème.

"Oh, leave her be," Aishe said, tossing me a heap of material. "What does a man care, so long as a body's warm?"

The subtle reference to my intended brought several frowns, and a few dark giggles.

I spread the garment in my hands, finding it a simple chemise. When I slipped it on, the edge floated around my bare feet. It was charming, in a plain way, though far too large for my body.

I glanced at Aishe, to see if she meant it as a joke, and she was busy stitching that skirt with the blue hue that she'd been so intent on previously. I had been doing my best to be sympathetic towards her, today especially and after such a tragic death of a friend, but there were certain things unforgivable. Like working on one's own clothes on the wedding day of another, for example.

I hadn't any say in any part of this and no idea what my preparation entailed. My job as bride seemed to show up and say "I do," when appropriate. So when Jal came to me with a mixing bowl in her hand, I obeyed when she told me to sit. I even allowed her coat me with the mixture within her mysterious bowl.

Jal dipped two fingers into her bowl and when she lifted them, a wet sheen glistened on the tips. She swept them across my brow, my nose and my chin. A lovely array of almond, juniper, and many other spices my untrained senses did not recognize invaded my nose. She then raised the bowl above my head and titled it so the liquid landed squarely on the top of my skull. Slowly, it worked its way down my scalp, raising goose bumps on the back of my neck. As one of the drops ran alongside my nose, I recognized-or perhaps I imagined-another scent amongst the bouquet.

_Roses in the church. Roses in my hands, roses at my feet as I walked down the aisle. I had not wanted them, _any_ flowers but roses…_

When I looked down at my lap I found my hands were trembling. I had expected an assortment of memories to assault me today, and I pushed them away as best I could. I would not let myself think about Raoul, or our wedding, no matter how difficult it might be.

Jal sat behind me and went to work on my hair. Thanks to Dika and her little friends, it was not nearly as matted as I had let it become, though I still yelped several times when Jal hit a snag. They spread the oil throughout my hair, until the scent floated between my curls. But to my chagrin, they tied my hair the same way as it had been before. Two braids at my temples, free down my back, the only difference was the accompanying perfume.

My usual dress lay in a heap by my sleeping space and I regarded it with contempt. Not that I was looking forward to this, I was still a young woman on her wedding day. No matter whom I married, I did not want to do it in a gown that still smelt of Huelgoat raw ale.

I began to nervously play with one of my nails. Jofranko saw this and snatching my hand, began to scrub violently on my nails.

"_Phen_, we don't have time for that. Help me get her into this. Hearing Jal's voice, I looked away from my grubby dress and the sight that greeted me took my breath away.

Jal stood before me holding the most beautiful dress I had ever seen. The pattern was much less grand like a peasant's best Sunday dress. But the embroidery and colors were breathtaking. Dark blue, spun muslin made up the bodice and the skirt, overlaid with dark, red silk. Black and gold thread lined the edges in swirling patterns like dreams. And the white shirt to be worn under the bodice was threaded at the collar with lovely, vibrant ribbons.

"Where?" I raised my hand to touch it, but I hardy dared. "How?"

Jal took my hand guided me towards it. I felt her smile, though my eyes were only for the dress.

"Isn't it lovely? This is yours, Christine."

"Mine?" Nothing in my comtess' wardrobe had nearly the heart this did. I felt soul in every plane and every stitch. The muslin was so simple, hand-made by the looks of it, and the dye and texture were nothing any peasant woman could not make in her spare time.

The material looked vaguely familiar. As I rubbed the skirt between my fingers, I remembered where. The muslin was the same material Aishe obtained from that farmer's wife weeks ago. The silk was from the gown I wore on the night of Raoul's birthday.

I snatched my hand away and scanned the room for Aishe, but she was gone. Most of my well-wishers had already left to find seats for the ceremony and Aishe must have gone with them.

"We have to hurry," Jofranko murmured, as Jal helped me into the dress. "If we're going to beat the rain, we have to leave now!"

"Almost done," Jal pulled the dress tight against my skin, and then loosened it for my sake. "Aishe went to see if everything is ready, we'll leave when she gets back. Where's Dika?"

With all the commotion, I had not noticed she'd slipped away too. Her tiny little presence had been a source of comfort for me and I found myself disappointed that she had abandoned me now.

"She went to pick flowers," answered Jofranko. "Someone told her _Gadjí_'s use them at their weddings and she wanted to get some for her," by the way Jal rolled her eyes, I suspected it was not a tradition she thought useful.

"She'll be no good to me if she gets lost out there." Jal finished knotting the laces, and stepped back to admire her handiwork.

I smoothed my skirt and let my fingers wander over the embroidery. No the best fit, but still very becoming. It truly was amazing work, and I could not understand why Aishe would bother. Perhaps the beauty of this gown was not meant to show affection for the bride.

Dika returned and proudly held up her treasure for me to see. Daffodils and wild grass spread like madness out of her little fist, a few tufts of seeds floated through the air, onto my dress and into my hair.

"Oh, thank you," I said as I took the bouquet, and the little girl beamed.

There was nothing more to add to my unorthodox appearance; all that was left was to walk out the door and my grandmother-in-law, agreed.

"We have to go," Jofranko insisted.

"Not without Aishe," Jal countered.

"I don't care about the half-breed, let's get this over with. I'm not waiting another moment while she-"

"You won't have to," Aishe said. "I'm here."

Indeed she was, and in her arms she held a small package wrapped in white linen.

"You have some nerve, child, making us wait like this," Jofranko hissed. Aishe ignored her. A mother who had so recently lost her daughter was not to be reasoned with.

"I have a gift for you, from _him_," she said glibly to me, handing the package to Jal. "And everyone's waiting for you, whenever you are ready."

Jal parted the linen and peered inside. A curious look crossed her face and she showed it to Jofranko, who shrugged. Jal handed it to me, and I too looked inside.

"He said it was for your people, whatever that means."

My people. It was so delicate, so lightly woven, I was afraid to touch it, but I couldn't keep my fingers away from the myrtle leaves. My mother had worn a crown of like this on her wedding day. It was a Swedish tradition and one I did not have the chance to enact, last time.

Jal placed it on my head. The crown elicited images many years buried, of a life I once had, in a place as white as the clouds. And I felt…pretty. I had no mirror, nor any other reflective surface to judge my looks, but I felt like myself; comfortable, yet polished. From the smiles and indifferent gazes, I imagined I might actually look beautiful.

Beautiful... such an odd word.

"If you're quite finished, they're waiting for us." Later, when perhaps she was in a better mood, I'd make sure to thank Aishe for the dress. Much later.

There was nothing unusual about this day. The sky was grey with a promise of fresh rain, and an accompanying scent heavy in the air. Jal and Jofranko each took one of my arms and led me through the camp. No one was out, not even the children: all were waiting for me, somewhere in the distance along with Erik.

I staggered, and might have fallen if not for my adoptive mother and grandmother-in-law. They may have held me originally to keep me from running, now they kept me from falling face-first into the mud. I felt so wrong, so _dirty_, as my mental barriers came crashing down, and left me trembling in my lovely bridal dress.

_Raoul_…_lace… a white mask… a birthmark like the sun… and the memory of music, always in my head…_

Reality had finally caught up with me.

"Christine?! Christine, breathe!" Jal's called desperately, while Dika slapped my back.

I caught Jal's hand in a fierce grip and pulled her towards me.

"Jal, I can't do this. I can't!" I cried. "I can't!!"

Jal brought me into her arms and cradled me like a child.

"Shh… it's alright. Just do as he does and you'll be fine."

Fresh tears began to roll down my cheeks, mingling with the perfume, and I squeezed Dika's bouquet, sending the daffodil seeds in a thousand new different directions.

"Christine, look at me." Aishe's voice sounded from behind me, and Jal loosened her hold just enough to allow me to turn to the girl. _How she must relish this moment, how she must hate me! _

But she seemed calm, and resolute. She kneeled in front of me and bent to whisper in my ear, "Remember: It's an illusion, nothing more."

My heart and mind had been spinning, hurtling toward disaster and dragging the rest of me along with it. Yet somehow, at Aishe's words, everything seemed to stop.

And I could breathe again.

She was right. It was a game. I was in the countryside of Brittany, not a church. There were no sacred vows, just me and Erik.

They helped me to my feet and we continued on, at a much slower pace. Jal fixed my crooked myrtle wreath, and Aishe went on ahead.

I was not sure where we would go, but a communal tent, erected on the far side of the camp, seemed to be where we were heading.

I heard music, and people. And as we approached, I felt a kind of numbness take me over. I saw myself with different eyes, entering the tent, seeing the troupe in its entirety look at me with nods and gasps of approval, garlands and decorations hanging from the ceiling.

I hardly felt Jal at my back, guiding me towards the lone man in the middle, or his cold touch when my adoptive mother placed my hand in his.

I expected him to wear black, and he did not disappoint me. I did not have a chance to look at him fully on the night of Mariela's funeral, and though his appearance had not changed dramatically, there was a difference. His hair was even longer, now brushing his shoulders, and smoothed to an onyx gleam. The difference was far more subtle. His hand, though cold, felt like a live wire. Tension coiled so tightly, his body fairly hummed. He made a point not to look at me and had it not been for our clasped hands, he might not have even noticed I was there.

We were made to sit in the middle of a very large circle of people. The music had ceased and the tent was totally silent, save the occasional cough, and the group's rhythmic breathing. I arranged my skirt around myself, straightened the daffodils in my bouquet and moved my gaze to my groom. His entire body was still, except for his free hand, which occasionally clenched and unclenched.

The old healer woman-too late to save Mariela, but right on time for this- came forward and began a chant in the Romany tongue. She touched my forehead, still slippery, and went to do the same to Erik. When her hand drew near his mask, she suddenly froze in mid-air. The hand began to tremble and she quickly pulled it back, and made a sign against evil with her gnarled fingers. I cast another quick glance to Erik, and saw the clenching and unclenching of his fist, had stopped.

She finished her chant and called others to join her. My adoptive parents, a sullen Luca, and his mother-in-law Jofranko came forward. On one of my knees, Luca placed a small loaf of bread; on the other, Djano placed a cube of salt.

For a while, nothing happened. Erik had not moved, the tent was utterly silent, and I had food on my knees with which I had no idea what to do.

Finally, letting go of my hand, Erik reached over and took the gifts for himself. He crumbled some of the salt and sprinkled it on the bread. He brought the bread to his mouth, hesitated, then bit solidly through it as several crumbs fell into his lap.

He placed the partially consumed meal on his knee and waited. Several people, if not everyone, was staring at me and waiting. My groom, too, finally looked at me.

_Do as he does_… the memory came singing through my mind, and I reached for the food.

I brought the bread to my lips and opened my mouth. It was a bitter loaf, doubly so with the addition of salt, and I felt it scrape the roof of my mouth as I swallowed. I shut my eyes as the bread trailed down my throat and I felt it drop, hard, into my stomach.

There were smiles on people's faces when I opened my eyes and a feeling of excitement replaced that of anticipation in the tent.

Jal, Dika, and Jofranko came forward and unbraided my hair. It fell loose around my shoulders, and for the second time that day, but in front of all these people, I felt almost naked. My braids had been with me for such a long time that I was left feeling strangely vulnerable without them. I would be glad when the tending of my hair was complete, and they were replaced. But when my 'family' had finished, they did not re-braid them: they left my hair to fall freely.

I was pulled to my feet by Erik then, and the room erupted in cheers.

Erik' hand was both steady and cold in mine as we were dragged outside by the crowd. A light drizzle had already begun to fall, but that did not stop Djano from lighting a fire under a caravan awning. Several women came to hug me and run their fingers through my newly freed hair. I looked for Aishe, but failed to find her among the crowd.

When I finally had a moment, I leaned towards Erik and asked, "What happened? Aren't we supposed to be getting married?"

His hair was damp and strands of black clung to the forehead of his mask. His grip on me tightened ever so slightly as he leaned forward and whispered, "My dear, we just were."

* * *

Despite the number of people and the rain, which finally made an appearance, food was in abundance. As soon as Erik and I were seated in our places of honor right by the fire, bowls and plates overflowing with food were brought before us. We had first choice of the bird, though Erik declined, and Jal brought to us a cake that looked remarkably like one would find in a bakery. My nose was filled with the aromas of rosemary, garlic, cooking meat, sweat cakes, and fresh-baked breads enough for everyone to eat. My ears were likewise filled with the sound of a riotous guitar, a violin, and an accompanying drum, beaten to a feverish pitch.

"I'll not have a plump wife, Christine. You had better watch what you eat," Erik said this as I took a large bite from the goose leg I had chosen. The juices were dripping down my chin didn't help, but I'd be damned if I let him get the better of me tonight.

"I'm not your wife," I murmured, too low for the other merrymakers to overhear.

"Perhaps, but you better make the appearance of it, or your people will not be likely to forgive."

'Your people,' reminded me of the myrtle leaves, and I straightened the crown on my loose hair.

"Thank you for this," I said, superfluously adjusting it again. "It was not necessary, but thank you."

"No, none of it is _necessary_, is it? Not the crown, the bouquet, or that lovely dress you are wearing."

"If you're going to be difficult-"

"'Difficult' being subjective. I'm simply reminding you, Christine, so your imagination does not run away and you fool yourself into thinking this is real."

"I'm not given to flights of fantasy…anymore," I added as an afterthought. "And I am not exactly thrilled my freedom has to be bought this way."

"Neither am I, my dear. Neither am I."

There was enough food to last for hours, but most of the Gypsies had abandoned it in favor of dancing. A massive tarp was erected and tied between several caravans to keep the rain away, but even under its wide-spread canopy, there was still barely enough room for everyone. Some abandoned the cramped shelter, and danced in the pouring rain, while others played games of dice. My eyes scanned the crowd for Aishe, and instead I found Luca, spinning a mad dance dangerously close to the fire.

"What happens now?" I asked, watching the widower. "I've done what I promised, where does this charade go from here?"

Dika brought us both mugs of wine. Erik did not touch his. I was naturally averse to any Gypsy drink, but I downed this in a few swallows.

"I've been told reality is not supposed to set in until after the honeymoon, my dear."

I took Erik's drink and finished it too. I would not let it go to waste just because he chose to be so grim.

"I need hope, Erik. I need to know when I'll be free so I'll never have to-" I did not finish, but 'see you again' was heard anyway.

"And once you're free? What are you planning to do then?"

A feeling, like a brush of stars, swept across my mind's eye. Now, I had to concentrate when I reached for a fresh slice of cake, and the entire world felt a little brighter.

"I told you, I'm going to Sweden," I declared proudly. "I still have family there. I'll go and be happy. I'll never see France again. Erik, try this cake it's delisss…delissh…_delicious_!"

He batted away my hand as I tried to shove the cake in his face, and just caught me before I lost my balance.

"Oh my! I liked that stuff with the coffee in it, but I only had it once. This is very good, too," I giggled as I gestured vaguely to my-sadly, empty-mug. Erik was looking at me strangely, but I was feeling so good I did not care. The music was getting louder and faster and I wanted to dance. But not before he answered me.

"You did not tell me when I can go."

"You may leave now, if you wish."

I found that funny, and laughed. "That's not what I meant. When can I go to see my people!"

I had said that part too loudly and several people looked our way curiously.

"If you still have a sober bone in your body, Christine, you will hush now." I frowned, and I did not say any more. "I can't say when, exactly. These things are far more delicate than you realize. I'll play the constant companion and doting husband in public, but don't expect anything more-"

"Erik look!" I shouted, pointing across the fire. A couple, were locked in each others' arms, and indistinguishable from their closeness. I both blushed and laughed. There was nothing inhibiting about Gypsy life. I wondered why I was so eager to leave it.

It was definitely a night for seduction with everyone drenched from the rain and the near maddening pace of the music. I was not immune to it myself.

Erik ignored the couple and helped me to my feet. "I think it may be time for you to go to bed, my dear."

That made me giggle too, it was my wedding night, after all. "No, not yet. I want to dance!"

I slipped out of his grasp before he could catch me, and threw myself into the midst of the dancing. The music was louder here and I felt the beats pounding in my own body. The music beat faster and faster and women and men twirled in unison around me. My heart was raising, and I felt a blush rising in my checks that had nothing- or maybe everything- to do with the blackberry wine.

There was no pattern, no discipline, only movement. I hand always wondered why gypsy woman wore such daring clothes. Now, under the light of the full moon, and the glow of a summer fire, I understood. The long, colorful skirts acted as an extension of the body. Hips would sway, and the flow of the muslin would leave you with a memory of movement, almost burned into the flesh of your body. I threw my hips this way and that as I'd seen Aishe do and thought myself the most graceful dancer in the world. When I bumped into Brishen, instead of being angry, or calling me 'marimé', he spun me in a circle and danced with me. My fragrant hair flew around my body as I spun and I imagined every eye was on me, admiring me, _wanting_ me.

I felt so alive, so free, and I did not want it to end. I grabbed a random hand and pulled someone close. After a time, another took its place and I felt hands wandering up and down the sides of my hips

I was hungry, but not for food. I reached again and again for body after body, but none felt right. None were the one I wanted, so I began to spin in a circle, by myself, around and around, until my eyes swam, my knees buckled, and all the lovely cake and goose I'd eaten came back out of my mouth.

The music did not stop, nor did the laughter. Blood was roaring in my ears and my mouth felt sour. I barely heard what anyone was saying to me except for scattered words: 'too much'; 'wine'; 'bed'.

Someone lifted me into their arms and began to carry me away. The heat from the fire grew fainter, and suddenly my whole body jerked in shock as I felt the cold rain falling from the sky.

"What did you say?" someone asked me, I made another feeble attempt to say, 'my dress' in hopes of saving it from the rain.

"Get her into his tent, quickly."

"But he's not there…"

"I don't care where he is right now. She needs to lie down. He'll come back eventually, they always do. Quickly now, before she catches her death."

When I opened my eyes, we were on the edge of the camp. We passed several caravans, and headed straight for a lone black tent, standing well past the edge of the camp, completely on its own.

"I don't want to go in there," a man said as we stopped just before entering.

"Just drop her in and have done with it."

"Someone needs to care for her."

"She needs to sleep."

Their voices were beginning to hurt my ears. I cuddled closer to the body and wished everyone far away. Someone parted the tent and took me inside. It was darker inside than outside with the rain, the canvas room lit by a single candle, when someone dropped me on a soft surface and left me alone.

I felt as if I had never stopped spinning, and I cradled my temples in my hands to get the pain to stop. God willing, I'd never see another person that night.

Though alone now, I could still hear the dancing in the distance, through the walls of the tent. There was no bed, but several large, soft pillows sat in the corner. I had been in here before, in full daylight. Here I was now, on my wedding night.

I lay down on the bed and rolled to my side. One of my hands snaked its way under one of the pillows, till it touched something hard and rough. I drew it back out and let it rest on my shoulder, above my bullet scare. I could think here, all the excitement of the celebration was far away, and here time seemed to have no meaning.

The candlelight cast a faint, almost ruddy glow about the tent. I felt I was in a dream rather then in my marriage bed. The red glow, and my detachment from my surroundings reminded me of the promises Erik once made me on stage...

_...entwining, defenseless and silent..._

I drew my hand farther down my body and let it rest on the swell over my beating heart. I wanted things now that girl never knew existed; knowing them and not being able to have them, was a hell in itself.

I wanted my life back, flawed as it may be. I wanted Raoul behind his massive desk and the signet ring on his finger. I wanted the Erik I knew, the one I cared about, to be well and thriving somewhere safe. There was no life, not even a hint of music in this man who had once been my music. Knowing that hurt far more than I ever could have imagined it would.

Something was pressing against my head. I reached into my damp curls and found a solid ring of softness. I had forgotten the myrtle leaves. A curl stuck on the crown as I pulled it off my head, and the leaves were pathetically limp after their sojourn in the rain. I leaned over the side of the bed and lay it close to the candle. The wax was nearly spent, and the flame licked the crown, singeing the edges of a leaf.

Rain beat softly against the roof. The candle cast a halo around my body in a way that made me feel as if I were the only person in the world. I did not like being alone, I never did, but without anyone else here, I could be completely honest with myself.

I wanted Erik to speak to me without that underlying indifference clouding his every word. More than that, I wanted him to touch me, need me in a way that I wasn't anymore, and help to end this loneliness I felt as if I'd carried forever.

And to want that, when my real husband was not dead two months, was unforgivable.

I closed my eyes and curled onto my side, shivering in my damp clothes. It may have been exhaustion or my intake of wine, but I fell asleep that night with my tears staining the pillows.

* * *

_**A/N:** Well that's what I get for thinking I can post this at three in the morning. I was so gun-hoe to get the appointed two-week time, I let some errors slip by me. Big mistake. Next time, I'll be fully awake._

_The actual eating of the bread is based on fact, the rest is my own interpretation. It should be noted, however, that what is true for one group of Gypsies is not true for all. I found several different versions of the Gypsy wedding, and I found this one best served the story. _

_To those that reviewed on the first post, thank you. It means the world to me. If you haven't, please drop me a line._


	27. Presenting Madame Mulani

**Chapter #26**

**Presenting Madame Mulani**

It was hot. Too hot. The air wrapped itself around my body and wetted my skin like a lover's kiss. I rolled from one side to another to escape the heat, but it followed me with every single turn.

Sometime during the night, I tore off my dress. In my chemise, I could breathe again, and I could sleep, if it was at all worth having.

Eventually, I gave up trying. When I awoke for the final time, I lay in an unlady-like sprawl on my bed, with my chemise clinging to my body and the residuals of wine beating persistently behind my eyes.

My mind and my thoughts felt years away, yet I remembered everything.

Everything, that is, up until my tryst with the blackberry wine. Hazy gaps, infused with memories of fervent dancing and cold, yellow eyes, left far too many possibilities for my liking. My free arm inched its way hesitantly across the pillows, but I let out a sigh of relief as my fingertips encountered nothing more than the soft plains of the bed. I opened my eyes.

The room was much the same as I remembered ―save for my crumpled wedding dress lying near the entrance. Given the circumstances, my mind couldn't help but wander back to the morning after my first wedding, and I felt once more the inevitable ache that always accompanied the memory.

My new husband had lain beside me, holding me close, while I had simply wondered what I had done to deserve him.

I wondered what I had done to deserve _this_ husband, too... But there the similarities ended. I was in a cold bed, feeling ill and unloved, with my husband conspicuously absent. In fact, I had no idea where Erik even was.

Although my head was spinning, the last thing I wanted to do was to lie there and wait for him,― or anyone else for that matter. This room was sparse compared to his old dwelling, with very little hint of personality, and yet being in his 'home' again felt far too intimate for my own comfort. I wrapped myself in the closest blanket I could find, and stepped outside.

It was too dark to tell the time and rain fell all around me, dampening my hair and clothes. I stepped out from under the protection of the tent's awning and immediately began to shiver, but made no move to go back inside.

Everything was illuminated, everything clear. The rain was cool on my brow and the air, fresh and silver in my mouth. My headache did not lessen, but I closed my eyes, tilting my head up, and let the rain wash over me. It felt wonderful, and I let my mind drift far away.

I heard him before I saw him. The moist earth had a distinct sound that made any sneaking out of the question―even for him. Still, I wanted this moment to last as long as possible, solitary in my own world and momentarily free, and so, for the moment, I ignored Erik.

When I finally turned, he was watching me, indifferent as if I simply had wandered into his field of vision. He wore the loose trousers, vest, and peasant shirt of the ordinary Gypsy man, yet even in this mundane wardrobe, Erik still exuded all the regal bearing of a prince. I pulled my poor water-swollen blanket tighter around my body and tried to ignore that underneath the wool, I wore only my thin chemise.

Much of what had happened after the wedding was lost to me, but with the rain falling around us and nowhere to hide, my torrid personal confession before I fell asleep was as clear to me as a raindrop.

"You've been watching me," I accused, deflecting my unease with anger. "Couldn't you have said anything?"

He shrugged. "A mere scientific study, Madame, nothing to be offended by."

Offended would not be the word I'd use, but the point became irrelevant when I saw what was behind him. In the excitement of yesterday, I had forgotten about Averroës.

He wasn't alone: Carmen, the horse I'd given as an impulsive wedding gift, stood beside him. A night in the rain could kill a hardy plow horse, and for a moment I feared my negligence might have proven fatal to both.

"If you are concerned over their health, Madame, you needn't be," he led both horses under the awning and patted Averroës' neck. "I found them under a tree. What you see now is a result of our walk."

He went inside the tent, and left me and the horses alone. Averroës' blue eyes regarded me with their usual healthy gleam, and I found that his coat was just damp, not soaked. Carmen appeared much the same, only her interest was fixed on the grass beneath her hooves.

When Erik returned, he had a comb, a brush and a dry towel. He went to work on Averroës, pressing a towel to his flank. The horse snorted.

I did not like anyone touching my horse, let alone Erik. I ground my heel farther and farther into ground as I watched Averroës' clear sigh of pleasure under Erik's meticulous care.

"You look upset, Madame." The brush completed its arc, turning back to the nape of the horse's neck. "I hope the accommodations last night were to your liking."

The tent was still open, and inside, I could see the mess I'd made tossing and turning.

"Lovely, thank you."

"Good, then I trust you will be healthy enough to ride."

"So soon?" For the first time that morning, I noticed the camp was in a flurry of activity, the same as before a move. I hadn't been expecting the customary days of celebration to follow _my_ wedding, but still, how could anyone sit a horse after last night? And in this weather?

"You should be glad of it. Were I you, I would not relax until I was off the continent."

This was it, I guessed. This was what married life to Erik would be like: tense and unpredictable. A far cry from declarations of utter devotion and promises of walks on Sundays.

"Get dressed and pack your things," he said and returned to his work. "I'll wait here."

Everything I owned mostly amounted to what I wore... and _that _was scattered all over the tent. I found my skirt, and the crown of myrtle leaves where I'd left them, and the blouse trapped between the pillows of the bed. I had the skirt on, the crown in my pocket, and the bodice half-way secured, when I stopped and let out an exasperated sigh. I missed my raggedy old clothes, because at least with them I could dress by myself.

"Erik?" I called, peeking out from the canvas. He had not moved from where I'd left him and he did not move now that I called him. "Erik? I need your help."

I turned slowly away, lest he see my face, dreading what was to come. I pulled my hair to the side to reveal the gaping back of my dress. "I can't tie the laces by myself. Would you...?"

I heard only the slightest _squish _from the wet ground before I felt the bodice slowly tightening around my body. A lock of hair fell out of my grasp and cold fingers swept across my nape quick and sharp as to brush the offending curl away.

What should have taken moments, ended up taking much longer. He pulled and tightened only to stop, apparently dissatisfied with his work and do it all over again. I felt a huff of frustration, and a flurry of movement each time he had to start again. After a while, the breath grazing the back of my neck evened out and I assumed the nuisance had now become a challenge for him. There was nothing I could do and I let him gradually work out the puzzle himself.

When he finished, I felt him stepped back. I let my hair fall and turned my body to test the soundness of his knots. Good and tight.

He brushed past me into the tent and began gathering everything left on the ground. Desperate to put as much distance between us as possible, I hurriedly plaited my frazzled hair into a tight braid and wandered over to the horses.

The rain was indeed beginning to ease, but even if it completely stopped, the ride ahead of us would be miserable. I didn't know if I'd ever get used to this hard riding.

When I turned around, Erik had started dismantling the tent. He went to each corner and loosened the knot. And the tent, seemingly solid as stone only moments before, began to slump.

I watched him tie most of the packs on Carmen's back, leaving the lighter items like blankets for my horse. My beautiful hunter was bred for swiftness and high jumping; Carmen looked as if she could carry a house without trouble.

"Are you ready?" he asked, and I nodded, looping my hand through Averroës' reins. "Good, then follow me."

He took off in determined strides, with Carmen in tow, toward the center of the camp. I struggled to keep up, with my own horse behind me.

Each family's traveling position in the troupe was based on its size, and rank. The heavier caravans with more people and more supplies were relegated to the back; smaller ones, and the ranking Gypsy elder, navigated the day's journey from the front.

With last night's events, my place had changed, and I was not sure how. Erik's status with these people was a mystery to me. He did not appear to hold rank, or council with anyone, and yet I had seen how they all treated him when he was near. I had no doubt that if he wanted to ride up front they would let him. The question was, where would I be?

I had been following behind, eyes fixed on my own feet, when another pair appeared before mine. I only just managed to stop before crashing into their owner. And when I looked up, Erik was glaring down at me.

"You would be doing us both a service if you did not look as if you were going to your death."

"What?" I could only blame it on the blackberry wine; thinking clearly was still impossible.

He leaned closer until I could feel his breath on my face. "You don't have to look the happy bride, but at least pretend that this is bearable to you."

I looked away from him, and saw a young man watching us. He quickly turned away, but not before I saw a lascivious grin on his face. My cheeks burned. No one knew what had happened last night, but that didn't stop them from _thinking_ they knew. I had spent the night sobbing and alone, while Erik...

I turned my face back and looked into his eyes. I saw nothing there but that lack of interest he always showed me, yet it was so easy to picture him looking adoringly at someone else.

_How could any of this be bearable,_ I wanted to cry, but all I said was, "Very well."

I walked beside him all the way to Jal and Djano's caravan, and kept my eyes down. Once or twice I allowed myself to look up to see where I was going, and the glances and open looks of curiosity brought my eyes right back down to my feet.

We stopped when we finally reached Jal's caravan. The woman herself was tying the last of the pots onto the wagon when she spotted us.

She came toward me, and something inside of me melted. Only one night and I already missed her dreadfully. I would take the snores and cries of her children over a night in that black tent any day.

"What on earth are you doing looking like that?!" Jal didn't embrace me, as I hoped she would, but grasped my shoulders, spinning me around and muttering about married women covering their heads.

As I turned, I saw Erik already seated on his horse, and he rolled his eyes as Jal tied a dilko around my head. When she was done, and she turned me to face her again.

"That's better," she said. "_Never_ go out with a bare head again."

She went back inside to her children, and I went to my horse.

I made a half-hearted attempt to pull myself up into the saddle. A quick, intense pain shot through my shoulder when I tried to use both arms, a reminder of why I was here in the first place.

"Need some assistance?"

Erik swung out of the saddle and landed in the mud by my side. With something like a condescending sneer, he twined his hands, and bent before me.

I looked at those long hands, smudged with mud and calloused from handling the horses. I raised my leg and put my equally dirty, unclothed foot in his palms.

"The left leg, Madame."

I hastily switched feet, and grabbed hold of the saddle with my good arm. In one smooth motion, he launched me up into the air. Unprepared for my sudden flight, I somehow managed to swing my leg out in time to land, hard, on the horse's back.

I couldn't clutch both my ailing head _and_ my stomach, so I chose the latter. I thought I would be sick all over Averroës' beautiful white mane, but I forced myself to breath slowly in and out. Eventually, it passed, and when I came back to myself, I was seated squarely on my horse with Erik still grasping my heel.

"You never were a hearty drinker. Try to lay off the heavy ones next time."

Point taken, though my headache was a better reminder.

He went back to his own horse and swung gracefully into the saddle. Carmen veered slightly before Erik gained control over her again.

One by one the caravans pulled away. When our turn came, Djano steered his train of horses with practiced ease while Erik and I trotted alongside. Though the rain had stopped, heavy gray clouds still hung ominously over our heads. I had a feeling it was going to be a miserable ride.

All the charm I once held for the Breton countryside vanished in those ensuing hours. Averroës performed beautifully considering the muddy roads, scattered showers, and constant interruptions when yet another caravan would get stuck in the sloppy trail.

I expected silence from Erik, and I got it, but the deafening quiet from the rest of the troupe was formidable. No one spoke or laughed as concentration became centered on crossing this river, making it over that hill.

I doubted we traveled even half the distance we normally made in a day. The sky had only grown darker with time, and each new burst of rainfall grew worse than the last.

Our small troupe found itself riding single file through the mountain passes, which seemed to narrow with each new bend, with no safe way back, and only the unknown ahead of us.

"This is ridiculous!" I turned my horse in another circle after the latest debacle with a caravan. "Why not stop? We're not getting anywhere!"

The latest effort to free another wagon had lasted over an hour. Erik did not answer, but I could tell he did not disagree with me. He slid off the side of this horse and opened a pack.

"Put this on," he said, tossing me a cloak. I spread the heavy thing before me, black of course, and far too large for my frame. With some effort, I swung it around my shoulders and lowered the hood over my throbbing forehead, leaving just enough of a gap to see what was in front of me. And what I saw was Erik walking away .

"Wait! Where are you going?"

I almost slid off of my own horse to follow him, but thought better of it. I did not have to steer Averroës far before we found the crowd of Gypsy men arguing around the mired caravan.

I had never seen Gypsy men treat their elders with anything but the utmost respect, and yet watching them now, I thought one of them might take the other's head off.

No need for polite pity now: the shouting match was conducted entirely in Romany. My few recognizable words were easily swallowed by the melee, and for all I knew they could have been arguing over anything.

The back left wheel was lodged in a sink hole of mud. Occasionally the bored horses would attempt a pull, but the caravan would just fall right back in with a filthy splash. Though they could not pull it out, this was a fairly mild case compared to the ones I had seen throughout the day. If the men only stopped arguing for a few moments, they could pull it out themselves in no time.

One of them suddenly noticed me, and the arguing reached a fever pitch.

The pounding in my head grew to a deafening pressure as my mind translated the few snippets of Romany I knew. The noise seemed to close in on me, crushing my skull under its weight, when a voice cut through the chaos.

"I will go," Erik said, in perfect Romany. The arguing did not stop immediately when he spoke, but gradually, the angry words lessened, and everyone's attention went to the masked man. No one answered when he spoke, yet everyone listened; even I, who had given up the effort of translating, heard every word.

When he had finished, one or two other men spoke as well--though not nearly as loudly as before. But when that was done, it was obvious that there was an agreement, and Erik headed back to his horse.

Within seconds, a clattering of hooves swept by me as both Carmen and Erik sped by us, out onto the road ahead. My horse, eager to follow the mare, shifted on his feet. Without Erik, or any idea what I was to do with myself, I returned to my adoptive family, waiting as patiently as everyone else for the men to resolve the issue with the caravan.

Aishe was sitting quietly on the back of the wagon, sewing. She looked well, refreshed, and calm. She said nothing; not even when she looked up from her work and met my eyes with their knowing glint. My dowry chickens had gotten loose, and the boys chased them around the wagon wheels, their shouts of laughter doing little to encourage the birds back inside.

"Damn roads, filthy weather," Djano came up the road, cursing colorfully under his breath. When he noticed me, he came up and stuck a finger directly in my face "That man of yours better get back soon. I'm not pulling out one more caravan."

"Where did he go?" I kept my voice low as possible, but Aishe still heard me.

"He's scouting the road ahead to find a place to make camp," she answered. Her needle disappeared into the blue cloth, and then reappeared on the same side.

A warning crack of thunder sent the family into the caravan. I was tempted to join them myself, but rain was more welcome than being cramped inside with Aishe for company. I nearly changed my mind several times throughout the day.

Moments of clear sunshine, were always followed by a heavy downpour. Everyone remained quiet, waiting, hoping for the rain to end for good. Everyone except Jal's baby.

Jal blamed teething and a bout of colic for Chivali's crying. Even with a mother's understanding, there was only so much she could take. When the confines of the caravan became too much for her, Jal joined Aishe on the back ledge. The baby's screams outside were probably less oppressive than inside, but it did nothing to help my headache.

"She might be hungry," I offered though pained teeth and Jal laughed.

"This one's had enough to eat for an entire village."

I squirmed in my saddle. The routine boring topics of conversations of women of my former life, outside of idle gossip, were usually on the weather and child rearing. The answers to problems of the latter were always left for the nanny to handle.

"Maybe if you rock her more..." Her look of pitying encouragement shut me up.

"Maybe she'd stop if Christine sang to her," Aishe said plainly.

Jal caught the horrified look on my face and saved me from Aishe's request. "I tried singing myself. I don't think anyone singing is going to do the trick, Aishe, but music might. Brishen!"

Brishen had been riding behind us up front with his father the entire day. He had nothing to do other than watch the road and the effort had left him in a waking coma. But at the sound of Jal's commanding voice, he snapped out of it.

"Yes! What?"

"Get your guitar and give us a song." The young boy looked to his father, who shrugged. Brishen climbed into his own home and emerged moments later with his instrument.

"What shall I play?"

"I don't care, anything to stop her crying." The baby, as if anticipating a new attempt, wailed even louder that I thought she would turn blue. Someone several caravans back shouted to shut the baby up and Jal replied in Romany, in words unknown to me, yet known enough to Aishe to cause her to raise her eyebrows.

Brishen fiddled with the guitar, plucking and tightening as he saw fit while the baby howled away.

He started strumming a simple melody, idly playing as if his mind were really on something else; a beautiful girl with curling red hair, perhaps.

"That's beautiful, Brishen. What's it called?" I asked and pulled my horse back to I rode along side him.

He came back to himself and smiled, "Oh this? Nothing but a silly love song. My mother used to sing it to me."

Indeed, everyone who heard it seemed to know it. Jal hummed in her simple, off-key voice, Aishe's foot rocked in time with the beats, and even I hummed along once I knew the basic melody. It had those mournful tones you'd expect in a love song, with an added flare of gypsy longing.

The baby never did quiet, but she did eventually exhaust and fell into a deep sleep in her mother's arms. Jal put her to bed, Aishe continued to sew, and I kept my eyes on the horizon.

My horse's purposeful steps eventually lulled me into my own waking sleep. It was easier not to think, than to think about all the things bothering me. I was so desperately tired, that I missed the rider.

Djano, of all people, pointed him out to me.

"There," he said, pointing ahead. "Here comes your man now."

He was riding toward us at a break neck speed, his black cloak cutting through the air while the sky opened again, and thunder rolled over our heads.

"Christine, you better go inside," Jal said. Brishen too had stopped his playing and climbed into the caravan.

"In a minute..."

Erik was coming up fast when a perfect streak of lightning struck a tree on the side of the road, just a few steps in front of them. Carmen leapt back, neighing madly. Flames sprouted from the shattered tree trunk, and I was off my horse in an instant.

Jal caught the end of my cloak before I could run to Erik, and held me fast.

"Are you mad!? That horse will kill you!"

I watched in mindless horror while Erik attempted to take control again and Carmen, scared out of her mind, would have none of it. Another terrified rear and Erik slid off the horse's back, right onto the road.

"Erik!" I pulled the cloak fastening at my neck free, and ran to him. I heard Jal's voice behind me. I ignored it and kept running.

He had the sense to roll away from the horse, and was clear of her hooves by the time I got to him. Carmen, now free from her rider, took off toward the troupe.

The rain stopped as quickly as it came and I had to knuckle the water out of my eyes to see.

He was curled on the ground, thrashing in all directions, with one arm groping about him, while the other shielded his face.

His naked face.

Aishe had caught up to us. She took one look at me, then at Erik, and froze. His face was thoroughly covered by his arm, but still she watched him as he writhed blindly about the ground, as if she had never seen him before.

I could see at that moment she was not going to be any help and I put her out of my mind while I searched for the mask myself.

I found it lying among the grass next to a stump of a tree. I picked up the flesh-colored kid-skin and felt the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. It was still warm from his body, and when I turned it over to face the inside, there was still sweat glistening on the ridges of the brow.

Erik didn't hear me, didn't even acknowledge my presence when I knelt before him. I called his name several times, before I placed a hand on his shoulder.

His hand shot out and caught me by the wrist, crushing the bones in a brutal grip. I did not cry out at first, and barely moved from the shock of the attack, but when I did finally manage to utter a cry, his naked forehead and yellow eyes appeared beneath the protective covering of his arm.

He let go of me when he saw the mask I held up like a shield. He snatched it from my hand, and retreated to the side of the road to put it on in private.

For a while, I stayed kneeling in the road between the wagon ruts, staring at my muddy hands.

I had seen only a forehead, eyes, and the beginnings of a horrible nose, but it had been enough to nearly stop my heart. I had I thought myself immune to it after countless nightmares. Such a face, such an _awful_ face. Somehow I had reduced it in my mind, made it less than it was. But there had been a reason he spent so many years down below, one that had not changed, one that made his reasons for being here, that much more elusive.

Gradually I realized, sitting as I was, my beautiful skirt was going to be ruined if I did not move. When I looked up, a group of curious Gypsies were coming up the path towards us.

Aishe was watching me curiously. She had a knack for appearing to know more than she let on, now it seemed I new something she did not. And in that moment, one clear, crystal thought emerged in my mind.

_She had never seen his face!_

There was more to it that needed to be explored, but that would have to wait as many of the men finally arrived.

"What happened?" Djano demanded, casting a cautionary glance at the tree. The rain had already eased most of the flames, but the tree still smoked and thunder rolled in the distance.

One of the men held out a hand and helped me to my feet .

"The horse was spooked." Erik appeared beside me, masked, in complete control of himself as if nothing had happened.

It was the most obvious thing to say, and clearly not the answer Djano wanted, but no one asked any further questions.

As if sensing their nervousness, Erik quickly related there was a village ahead, too far to reach before nightfall. We were better off staying where we were, waiting out the rain.

"What kind of village?" one brave Gypsy asked.

"One I'm sure is starving for entertainment," Erik answered wryly.

The man's lips tightened. Wary respect or no, Erik could be a real ass sometimes.

Most everyone left after that, to unload and eat after a tiring day, but I stayed behind, unsure of how it would look if I left him alone now.

He answered that for me when he ordered me to go with Jal.

"But.. you fell…" No one could fall off a horse onto a road this rocky without injury. And I had seen him fall. Hard.

"I'm fine. Go to her." He headed toward the troupe, leaving me behind in the road.

I did as he said, and went to Jal. I helped her prepare dinner, but very little actual preparation was needed because all the food was left over from the wedding. I refused everything that was passed my way.

"If you're not going to eat, take her," Jal said as she dumped the baby on my lap. After a long day of crying, Chivali was still asleep. She lay limp in my arms like a heavy doll, mouth moving innocently in her sleep.

I held her while the family talked and ate, offering my own bits to the conversation rarely. I wanted to be on my own, sort out my thoughts in private, yet I also did not want to leave. That would mean going back to my tent. I sat there for a long time, trying to make up my mind if I should leave or stay.

"It's not that awful to hold her is it?" Jal asked. I made to protest, but she took the baby from me anyway. "Go to your tent, Christine. You're in no mood for company now."

Sensing my reluctance, she added "I'll walk with you for a bit."

Jal stayed with me for a few paces, swinging the baby in her arms and humming the love tune Brishen had played. She stopped at the edge of the camp and patted me on the shoulder

"It gets better with time, girl. You'll get used to it," she whispered encouragingly.

I could not give a response, with my mouth hanging open in shock, but she didn't seem to need one. She turned around and went back to her family without another word.

Once I recovered from my embarrassment, I scanned the line of the horizon until I saw the black tent erected a good distance away. I forced myself, step by step, toward my new home.

I opened the flap quietly and peered inside. I had held a small hope he wouldn't be there, and I'd spend this night as alone as I had been the last, but it wasn't to be.

It was dark, save for a small light blocked by Erik's body. He was shirtless, and in the poor light , unnaturally pale.

He crouched on his side, wrapping a bandage and making awkward, jerky movements in the process. I should have turned around and let him be, but out of curiosity I came closer. In better light, I could see he had an ugly purple bruise, half hidden under the bandage, already formed along the entire side of his body.

I gasped and Erik whipped around to see me. The movement jostled the injury and he let out a hiss of pain.

"Leave me," he grunted as he turned away from me again.

He had wound the bandage around his ribs and over his shoulder. He tried tying off the ends, but the angle was wrong to tighten it, and he let go, the bandage unraveling on its own.

"Erik let me– " as soon as my hands touched his shoulder, I found myself thrown to the floor, with the urn toppled over beside me, inches from my face.

His back was to me, light barreling around the walls as the urn rocked from side to side.

He breathed heavily, but unevenly, each intake always interrupted by a hitch of pain. Slowly, he leaned over and pick up his shirt.

I lay perfectly still, no sudden movements or sound that might set him off again,

He took several steps toward the entrance, and even pulled aside the canvas, before he stopped and turned his head slightly, so I could see the profile of his mask, caked in mud.

"Do not...._ever_ touch me again."

And with that, he was gone, the flapping of the entrance the only sign anyone else had been there, except me.

* * *

**A/N: **

_I won't go into a long, detailed description as to why it's been so long, but I will say this: I whole-heartedly appreciate every reader and every reviewer who left me a note when they thought I had left this story. I haven't and I never will, it just might take me a little longer than it used to._

_Huge thanks to my wonderful beta for her work on every version I've sent her of this chapter._

_The next phase of the story is about to get messy, folks, so stick around!_

_Please leave a review!_


	28. After the Rain

**Chapter #27**

**After the Rain**

Rain came and did not let up.

Though traveling was exhausting, I found even something as tedious as sitting on a horse preferable to the endless days confined to a tent or stationary caravan. Even if the rain ceased completely, we would be stuck until the roads were safe enough to travel, and that was just as unappealing.

"You're losing track of the pattern, Christine."

I raised my eyes from my work to see my grandmother-in-law giving me a coldly-disapproving look. A similar expression was on the face of every woman and child staring at me around the circle.

I might not have bothered to try weaving again had I not been bored out of my mind. But Jal, ever my advocate, convinced the women that, as a wife, I needed to learn. I had been let into their circle every day since without complaint but very little welcome.

This most recent criticism came as a bit of a surprise. I was quite pleased with my latest attempt at a basket. The rows were even, the braids tight, I'd even managed the odd gypsy knot to give it an artistic flair… a touch that, I finally noticed, I'd bungled as I had gotten lost in my own thoughts.

My grandmother-in-law held out a gnarled claw, evidence of her expertise in the matter, and I handed my work to her. With practiced ease at odds with the appearance of her twisted hands, she unraveled two rows, then handed it back to me with a snuff.

I sighed as I looked at the strands of unraveled reed in my lap. No, it was no good anymore. The distraction it had lent me was gone and I needed to get out to find a new occupation.

"Ja-mother," I began, catching myself. "I think I'll go for a walk."

Jal did not look up from her lap, but waved me away with a warning to be careful.

I escaped the tent out into the fresh air. The rain had ceased entirely, much to my joy. I wandered around with no particular destination in mind. I came across a group of men in their usual arguing mode, and later children lobbing mud patties at one another. In the clearing behind the wagons, Brishen was watching them with a smile on his face.

Brishen, always kind and cordial, had become a good friend to me lately, and a welcome distraction before I covered all of the camp ground. His friendliness to me had probably more to do with keeping me quiet about his romantic tryst with a g_adjí_ than with any regard for my character, but it was much more then what I'd find if I went back to the weaving circle with my skills.

He was loading a small cart with baskets, furs, and all manner of homemade Gypsy products, when he saw me coming towards him.

"What's all this for?" I reached out and touched a rabbit pelt, soft and smooth beneath my fingers.

"Trade," he answered me, loading a last bag into the cart. "We're going into town for supplies while the weather allows us, and figured we'd try to unload some of these things too."

It was a good idea. With the recent spout of rain, there had been nothing to do but weaving and sewing for the women, whittling and maintenance for the men. We had goods enough to gift the whole French countryside, and a tiny village nestled deep and solitary in the hills.

"Horses too?"

"Of course." He wore a proud grin on his face and he certainly earned the right. When I first arrived, several of the horses had been sickly things, practically on death's door. With care, and Brishen's skillful hand, most of them had fully recovered and were healthy, strong, and beautiful animals once more.

"May I come?" I tried not to sound too eager.

Brishen considered. Though that feeling of inevitable dread for me was always strongest when we were near a village, being able to escape the monotony of camp for awhile would make it more than worth some anxiety on my part that Clavell would snack me the moment my guard was down. I might even learn the art of horse bartering, or, if not, I would have something to occupy my time until I fell asleep miserably alone in that awful black tent.

"It won't just be me, you know. Most of the men are coming. We'll be busy and none of us would be able to look out for you."

"I'm a grown woman, Brishen, I can look after myself." Though probably having said that, my maturity had dropped several points.

Brishen sighed, "If it's fine with Djano, it's fine with me."

"Thank you, Brishen," I knelt over with a grin and kissed his cheek. "I'll go ask him. I'll be back soon."

I practically skipped to Djano's caravan. I wasn't comfortable having to ask permission to go somewhere, let alone from a man I'd only known since mid-summer. But the person I would normally have to ask had not been seen since the camp was moved higher up the hills to avoid the rain. And I doubted I would see Erik again anytime soon.

I didn't think Djano would refuse me, though. He barely noticed me when I lived under his nose. I found him with his sons, checking the fit of one of his horses' shoes.

"Hmm?" he grunted

"May I go into town with Brishen and the others?"

I assumed he was asking me "Why?" from the way his eyebrow screwed up.

"I can help Brishen with the horses, and maybe learn for the next fair, and if you let me take some of the blankets Aishe was sewing, I can sell them and-"

I rambled on about a few other things I thought I could do, but clearly couldn't, until Jal interrupted, coming towards us with an armful of baskets.

"Let her go, Djano. She can get some things for me."

Djano merely shrugged. He probably wouldn't noticed either way, so I took it as his acquiescence.

Jal dumped the baskets by the side of the caravan, and came to me.

"I need you to do something," she said, fishing in her apron. "The baby has a cough. I need you to buy some rubbing oil. If they won't take this," she dropped a sizable purse into my hand, "find another way of getting it."

I weighed the bulging pouch in my palm. There was probably the equal of a good year's pay for what I'd earned as a dancer, at least.

"You know, Eri– " my mind went blank. I no idea how to refer to him myself, let another to others, and _mulani_ felt like a dirty word. "My, uh, husband is an excellent healer, he might be able to help you."

She shuddered at the suggestion. I could not say I blamed her. Erik with almost any human was an odd enough thought, Erik with an innocent baby...

"Just get the oil for me, if it doesn't work, we'll try something else."

I dropped the money in my apron. The baby had been fussy for a while, but I had no idea it was anything other than new teeth.

"How serious is it?" I asked, and Jal gave me a tight smile.

"Perhaps nothing, but I don't want to take the chance." She paused, and for a moment, I saw her motherly resilience fail her. "Get going, the men won't wait long."

I made a quick detour to my tent to get my horse, and, after a moment's consideration, a brush. Clothing aside, there was probably a better chance of g_adjís_ selling products to a Gypsy if I did not look a mess.

When I popped my head inside my tent, I found Aishe sleeping peacefully in my bed. Whereas I tended to toss and turn throughout the night, Aishe lay serene and peaceful like the sleeping beauty herself. It was easy to imagine Erik standing over her, as I did at that moment, and worshiping her like a perfect dream.

I gritted my teeth, irrational anger once again taking over me. But as it did, a solitary, evil thought penetrated the fog my jealousy.

_He's mine._

I shook the ridiculous thought out of my mind, found my brush, and left to get my horse before she'd awake.

Carmen was in her usual spot eating comfortably under a tree, but Averroës was nowhere to be seen. And I knew exactly who took him.

I was angry over more than just my horse, but there was nothing to do about it. Carmen was a decent mount. She would get me to the village and back easily. When I turned to find her saddle and bridle, Aishe was standing beside the tent, watching me.

"Going somewhere?"

I shoved past her and retrieved the saddle.

"Yes," I replied when I came back. "The village."

"Why?"

I was doing my best to ignore her as I readied Carmen. The horse took it with indifference and I was so absorbed with my task, I had not realized what I'd said until Aishe spoke.

"Chivali's sick?" Aishe repeated, a note of alarm in her voice.

Aishe grabbed hold of the bridle before I could get to it, and declared she was going with me.

"You don't _need_ to," I said," I can take care of this just fine by myself."

Aishe looked doubtful.

"And how do you plan on doing it, then?"

"Oh…well," I began, realizing I had not thought that far ahead, "by asking for it. Jal gave me money." I held up the purse for her to see. Aishe grinned ruefully and shook her head.

"You could offer them bags of money, Christine, and it wouldn't matter. You'll have to have quicker fingers than that," she said, nodding towards mine as I tightened the saddle.

"Are you suggesting that I steal it?"

She rolled her eyes. "If it makes you feel any better, you can leave them money, but they're not going to barter with a Gypsy, Christine, no matter how fair your eyes. Don't worry, though, I'll help you."

"If you think I'm going to let you rob anyone like you did that poor old woman, you can forget it!"

Aishe's eyes narrowed, and her voice dropped as cold as ice. "I'll forget it, if you can forget Chivali. This is not about you or your precious morals again, Christine. This is life. _Our_ life. Chivali's life. And now it's your life too."

In my mind I could still see Mariela and the moment the life went out of her. And Jofranko too, still so prostrate with grief that she wove baskets all day, just to keep her mind away from the thought of her lost daughter and grandchild. I couldn't bear to see the same thing happen to Jal.

Aishe did not feel the need to gloat once she saw that I understood. She left momentarily and came back with her finest woven blankets. Once she'd loaded them on the horse, she tugged slightly on the bridle and led Carmen and I to where Brishen and several others were waiting.

Brishen met our return with indifference, until Aishe tried to climb into the wagon.

"Absolutely not! If you squash the baskets, the women will have our heads!"

"How am I supposed to get there? I'm not walking in the mud!"

I was too absorbed in trying to climb into the saddle without jarring my bad shoulder to notice Brishen's response. When I finally made it into my seat, both were looking at me.

"No," I protested. "The horse can't take any more weight."

"She could carry a barn," Brishen countered. "Take her or neither of you are going."

Aishe blinked at me. At least she didn't appear to relish the prospect of riding with me. But clearly, there was no other option.

Aishe swung into the saddle and nestled against my back. When I tried to make space between us, she moved closer.

"Can I not have any room?" I seethed.

"No," she said casually, "you can't. You'll thank me for it later."

"And why would I do that?"

She didn't answer me right away, and after a while, I forgot I had asked as the village loomed closer and closer. Most of the ride was spent in silence, with Brishen's good-natured singing as the only accompaniment. She didn't need to explain in the end.

The mountains narrowed the path of the wind like an arrow. Gust after gust assaulted all of us, chilly and warning of the impending autumn that would soon be upon us. Aishe, pressed against my back, kept me warm.

"How do you do that? Magic?" I said more to myself than to her.

"Not magic," she answered, confident. "Common sense."

* * *

She had been right, of course. Aishe always was.

The moment I set foot in the store, I was run out like a thief. I tried to reason with them, told them I could pay, but they tossed me out into the street.

Aishe was waiting for me outside where I had left her, and gamely helped me up off the ground.

"Now what?" I said tersely, dusting off my dress. "If I can't give them good money, how–"

"Shhhh!" she hissed, looking behind me. The shop owner's son was standing outside the door, making no attempt to hide the fact that he was watching us. Aishe gave him her most dazzling smile and dragged me farther down the street until we were out of earshot.

"Do you have the money?" she whispered. I nodded. "Good, give it to me."

She took the pouch when I produced it and it disappeared down the front of her bodice. The shopkeeper's son was still outside the store, though his attention was now focused on a street performer, farther down the other way of the road.

The streets were crowded. It was not exactly a bustling metropolis, but the village seemed to have a reasonably sized population. The reason for the crowds was probably the same thing that brought us: the wish for freedom after the extended confinement of the rain.

Aishe's eyes darted in a dozen different directions, every person, every building noted. A flower peddler bumped into us and muttered, "dirty gypsies".

Aishe ignored her, and dragged me back towards the shop. When he saw us, the shopkeeper's son's attention immediately returned to us.

"Draw his attention, and I'll slip in the back. They keep the lighter supplies on the second floor and I think I can climb that tree...people never bother locking upper-story windows."

Her eyes flickered to the tree in question, a thin young thing, more twig than tree in my opinion, its branches barely brushing the second story window.

"You'll fall!"

"I've done this a few times. Just make a diversion long enough for me to slip in and we'll be fine. I'll even leave some money if it makes you feel better."

"What will I do?" I called to her retreating back. She was headed father down the street and disappeared in an alley between two buildings, leaving me to my own devices.

Alone, and unprepared, I stayed where I was for a time, gaping at the crowded streets. The boy was still watching me, and with even more vehemence, if such a thing was possible.

I couldn't very well stand there doing nothing. The only thing more suspicious to _gadjís_ than an active Gypsy was an inactive one.

I eyed the crowds filling the road and the street performer, juggling potatoes. I didn't know any magic, and any dancing I'd learned recently was not fit to be seen in public.

"Do something!" I heard a stained hiss behind me. When I turned to look, Aishe had already reached the lowest branch. Too weak to hold her weight, it broke with a loud enough crack to draw a few peoples' attention.

So I did the only thing I could. I sang.

"_Down yonder green valley/ where streamlets meander…_" I looked behind me just in time to see Aishe's leg disappear into the window, "…_when twilight is fading/ I pensively rove…_

"_Or at the bright noontide_ _in solitude wander/ amid the dark shades of the lonely ash grove._"

Before I had been a Gypsy, or a Comtess, before a diva, or a chorus girl, I had been a street performer with my father. And the feel of it was surprisingly familiar.

I remembered to make eye contact, as small crowd began to form, to hold back my pronunciation –at least from operatic requirements–and infused my voice with enough longing that these poor people believed I had met and lost my heart's desire among the ash grove. All I needed was a hat to collect coins.

_Twas there while the blackbird was cheerfully singing_

_I first met that dear one, the joy of my heart._

_Around us for gladness the bluebells were ringing _

_Ah! then little thought I how soon we should part._

_Still glows the bright sunshine o'er valley and mountain,_

_Still warbles the blackbird its note from the tree;_

_Still trembles the moonbeam on streamlet and fountain,_

_But what are the beauties of Nature to me? _

_With sorrow, deep sorrow, my heart is laden,_

_All day I go wandering in search of my love!_

_Ye echoes! oh tell me, where is the sweet loved one?_

_"He sleeps 'neath the green turf down by the Ash Grove."_

Pride swelled in my heart as a small crowd of people applauded my ending. A few shouted requests, mostly folk songs. I gamely sang the few that I knew, confidence in my voice returning with each new song.

Still, it had been years since I had practiced and when I finally stopped to take a breath, I realized nightfall was not far off. I bowed and thanked my audience. A few had thrown a coins at my feet, and a couple buttons, and I knelt down to retrieve them all. I bid them farewell as I was about to take my leave, but several of them continued to shout requests. One, in particular, caught my attention.

"Sing 'Love of the Burning Flame' by Berlioz."

"I'm sorry, monsieur, I do not know that one. And I really must be going." Folk songs were one thing, but people would remember a Gypsy singing opera. Remember and talk.

"Oh, I think you do, Christine."

There was an edge to that voice that could have stopped my heart. I looked to the owner, an average peasant man in a large hat, and a thick beard eating half of his face. But his eyes were clearly visible. Honey colored and once laughing, now they were cold and dead.

I did not scream, and oddly, I was not frightened at first when I recognized him. Gilles touched his hat in greeting and I nodded. It was not until he removed it and the face of my husband's murderer became clear, that I turned and ran.

I knew he was following me as I made my hasty retreat in a random direction down the first road I saw. Occasionally I glanced behind to see the shabby laborer on my heels, rushing as if he, too, were in a hurry to be gone.

I made so many random turns in my effort to lose him, that I became completely lost. I kept going, though, twisting in and out of the alleyways of this foreign village, with a vain hope that I would turn a corner and somehow find safety.

In the end, Gilles managed to corner me in a filthy alley.

I kept my back to him, staring at the wall in front of me, stubbornly willing it to disappear.

"Hello, Christine." His voice, I now noticed, had lost its elegance.

A fitting change, I decided, once I'd turned to meet him.

We said nothing to one another, simply took in what time and circumstance had done to the both of us, a good distance between us to soften the shock. His hair was longer now, greasy and unkempt, hanging limply around his ears. He was shabbily dressed and looked as if the last few months had not been kind to him.

Had I really once nearly been killed for laughing at the similarities I thought I saw between this man and Erik? Erik maintained a decent appearance no matter where life took him. Gilles looked as if he had not seen the clean side of soap in months.

"You sang beautifully. I never heard it before..." his voice trailed off as he realized his mistake. At the mention of our shared history, I made a run for it.

He moved in front of me before I had a chance to escape. I bounced off of him, losing my balance and landing in a stinking pile of something rotten.

"Why...?" I asked, breathless as I tried to stand.

"You'll need to be more specific than that, Christine."

"Why… are... you… here?" I spat, as I tried to ignore the stench of what I thought I'd landed in.

He took his time to answer me, lighting a cigarette and taking a very long drag of it before he said anything. I noticed the yellow stains and specks of food caught in his beard beneath a lip I once thought handsome.

"Business," he said simply.

"Business," I repeated, "after you..."

"'After I' what? I didn't kill him, Christine. Think back, if you can. The gun went off in the struggle; Raoul was merely the unlucky of the two of us."

He recited the event with same lack of emotion he would as if he were reciting the alphabet.

"What about Javier? He wasn't fighting."

For a moment, it seemed as if he didn't know to whom I was referring.

"Oh, _him_. The man with the gun trained on me? The way I see it, Christine, I acted in self defense. Besides," he threw his cigarette on the ground where he killed the last burning ember under his flimsy boot, "I'm not the one accused of murder, am I?"

My eyes widened and a wicked smile crossed his bearded face.

"I'll tell them the truth!" I said in a rush, even though I knew how futile it was. I had told Clavell, hadn't I? The fact that I'd run from him had done little to help me. "I'll get Céleste, she'll tell them and we'll end this!"

Gilles saw my bluff and called me on it.

"End what, dear sister? As far as I'm concerned it ended on that fateful night. The infamous Christine Daaé, shunned and hated, killed her husband in a fit to rid herself of him. She escaped to destinations unknown, free from the constraints of society and her past."

Taking a step toward me, he grabbed hold of a loose curl lying limp in front of my shoulder. He stared at it a long moment, ignoring me as if I were entirely separate from the lock.

"Are you going to kill me?"

He rubbed my hair between his fingers. He took another step forward and I took another, larger one, back, far enough that my hair fell free of his hands, and my back came right up against the wall.

He calmly struck a match on his boot heel. He lit another cigarette and inhaled with a methodical movement, apparently taking little pleasure in the act. The burning tip was close enough to my face, I could feel its red glow and see it just below my eye. My vision was blurry, and overwhelmed by him, and it only got worse when he blew smoke directly in my face.

"I love the look," he said, startling me slightly with the abrupt change of subject. "Have you taken up acting or are you fulfilling some lifelong dream?"

I slapped one of his hands down as it reached for my face."I'm doing what you're doing, though it's no fault of mine: hiding. And doing a good job of it."

He raised an eyebrow. "Not anymore."

I tried inching away from him, my back against the wall and my feet landing in more God only knew what. He followed me with every step.

"You're going to kill me?" I repeated. He shook his head. "Let me go? Turn me in?"

No to all of these and yet I should have guessed that already. Why kill when that was too easy?

"Then what?" I practically shouted. "Why are you doing this? What have I ever done to you?"

Something shifted behind his eyes, and I felt a chill go down my spine.

I had done nothing. I knew that, and part of Gilles knew it too. I had never been anything to him more than an object of desire, not a friend, not a sister-in law, not even human. And in his selfish mind, I had wronged him in the worst way: I had denied him. I had rejected all of his advances, save one kiss.

A man that had only experienced inconvenience throughout his life, never tragedy, would find any refusal by a woman unthinkable. When he'd finally fallen and experienced real misfortune, it did not matter that it had been his own doing. I had been the catalyst and for that I must be punished.

His entire body slammed against mine. I struggled and kicked, but he was too big. I squirmed and he pressed me flat against the wall, crushing the shoulder where the gunshot wound he had given me was.

I screamed in this ear, and the sound startled him enough that I was able to shove him off of me.

I ran toward the street, my bare feet slapping against the ground and blood roaring in my ears, not sure if he was still following, but with no wish to stop and find out.

I considered going back the way I came, but dismissed it immediately. I had not been paying attention to where I'd been going in the first place and even if I could find the way back, the general store would be less than welcoming once they discovered they'd been robbed.

I tried navigating in a different direction instead. The sun had been high in the west when we'd arrived, and it was nearly dusk now. I made a zig-zag pattern through the village, cutting between buildings and casting a glance over my shoulder every few seconds. Calm came over me, breath even and my feet sure as I concentrated on the minor things: where to go, when I should turn...

… until I walked straight into a body and all vestige of calmness vanished immediately.

The person was as surprised as I, and in reflex, grabbed me by the wrists as I nearly fell.

I tried tearing my arms away, but the grip on them was iron tight. I kicked and wriggled, and when that failed to free me, slammed my body against the stranger's with all my might.

I had struck the side of their body, when a quick, effective curse escaped the lips of my assailant- a very familiar sound- I stopped my struggling and looked up.

Erik.

I was so relieved to find someone–somewhat–safe, I nearly collapsed into his arms.

"What are you doing here?" Not that I really cared at that point.

"Business," he replied tersely, rubbing the injured side where I had struck him. "Where's Aishe?"

I couldn't answer that. She could be halfway to Istanbul, for all I knew. Once I'd seen Gilles, Aishe had ceased to be a concern.

The thought of Gilles jerked me back into the present. I tore myself from Erik and walked back to the edge of the building to peek around the corner.

"What's happened?" he demanded, sensing my sudden unease, but I ignored him for the moment.

No Gilles.

I let out a sigh of relief and turned back to Erik, who was looking both annoyed and somewhat bored.

"You look like you've crawled out of a sty..."

Judging by his intake of breath, I probably smelled like I'd been roosting there too. For the first time I realized how odd it was to see him out and about civilization in daylight. In the camps was one thing; here, there were dozens of people within arm's length at nearly at all times. The flesh-toned mask made him look a bit more inconspicuous from a distance. Even then, however, he needed his cowl pulled low and any offer of shade to go unnoticed.

Clearly, I saw him.

He repeated his question and I almost told him what indeed had happed to me. Wanted to so much, even, that it nearly came out on its own, but I crushed it before it could escape.

I recalled Aishe, peacefully asleep in my bed, and the days and weeks on end Erik would disappear without an explanation. He lived in a web of secrets, which was expected, but if I was made a stranger to his, why should I let him know mine?

"A shopkeeper tried to attack me," I lied. Erik crossed his arms, the wings of his cape swallowing his thin frame. "I tried to buy medicine for Jal's baby, and he ran me out of the store."

"Why?"

"Does he need a reason?" I said, gesturing to my _dilko_.

We lapsed into a spell of silence. Erik had his own reasons, but I was so emotionally exhausted from all that had happened today, that I felt any effort at conversation would drive me over the edge. I needed to do something, though, and for lack of options, I took my brush out of my apron to fix my hair.

His remark about a sty was apt, I thought. My hair had not messed itself up, but I would not tell him that. I untied my _dilko_, dropping it to the ground, and shook my hair free, needing to lose that feeling of confinement. My hair was longer than it ever had been in living memory, making it far easier for it to become tangled and messy during an ordinary day. First I ran my fingers through it, assessing, then set my brush to the arduous task of smoothing the knots.

I felt his eyes on me, a feeling I found oddly thrilling. My mind was exhausted from the day, but my body was still very much alive.

"You should not sing in public, Christine." I looked up and his masked face hung over me. He had picked up my _dilko_ and placed it on my head, reaching around my neck and lifting the curtain of my hair to tie it in place. As he brought his hands back, he kept a hold of a curl, a gesture reminiscent of Gilles, though it now had an entirely different effect on me.

"Your voice is... recognizable."

I willed myself to keep my face passive. Warmth spread through me, snuffing out any last traces of fear. I looked up into those golden eyes and forgot everything but myself and Erik. I was eighteen, or I was twenty-six ; he was my enemy or my husband, it did not seem to matter. The urge to touch and be touched was blotting out everything, and so strong my knees shook beneath my dress.

I both dreaded and welcomed whatever would happen next. I felt his hand grip my wrist with a brutal tenderness. I sucked in an expectant breath, waiting for one of us to do something, anything, when the air was broken by not Erik, or me, but Aishe.

And if I was ever in confusion of her feelings about me, that doubt was then gone. Because the expression on her face mirrored that odd thought I had held earlier that day.

_He's mine!_

_

* * *

_

**_A/N:_**_ Well, this baby was written and re-written more times than I can count, and I need to thank again my beta for being so patient and to everyone who left a review._

_One of my new years resolutions besides remembering to wear sunscreen is to finish this before ALW puts out his musical sequel, and by gum I'll do it!_

_Thanks for reading, please leave a review.  
_


	29. A Future in your Hands

**Chapter # 28**

**A Future in Your Hands**

We didn't break apart.

At least, Erik did not. His hand, now impossibly cold, held fast to my wrist. Whatever moment we had shared had vanished in a puff of olive-skinned fury known as Aishe Faa.

Her expression had made an impressive evolution from shock, to betrayal, to all-out murderous. I made the mistake of moving to try and free myself from Erik, and anger that had been fluttering like a lost bird suddenly found its target.

"What do you want?"

Her fury tempered momentarily at Erik's brisk question, but her eyes once again landed on our interlocked limbs.

"Brishen," she started, and stopped herself. She gave me a brief, snide look and when she did speak again, it was in Romany.

I sighed and leaned back on my heels, content to wait out whatever ridiculous lover's quarrel Aishe was intent on having in my presence. Even had I been able to keep up with her rapid words, I had no doubt she'd pepper her sentences with slang I would never know had I lived a hundred years as a Gypsy.

Erik, when he bothered to reply, did so in French. Releasing my arm, he again assumed his usual air of bored indifference, and it only served to agitate Aishe even further.

"He got himself into this, he can get himself out," he said.

The sun was nearly gone by now, leaving a dreamy golden glow that made it hard to see anything clearly. But there was enough light to see the way Aishe's eyes flashed and her lovely jaw locked in a most unbecoming scowl.

"It will be your problem when they turn him out with nothing," she said, slipping back into French. "He helped you, too…you owe him that much."

Erik crossed his arms and said nothing.

Aishe lost any vestige of control and exploded in rage.

"You would be DEAD without him! Does your own life matter to you?! Does nothing?" her voice made a progression up the scale until she reached a near whining pitch. "Why can you not care? For _once_, why can you not give a damn about-"

Her beautiful face was pleading, a mesh of love, betrayal, and youthful disappointments. And then abruptly she seemed to deflate, all her passion vanishing in the early twilight. I often forgot she was only seventeen. Maybe I knew her better than I thought, because her meaning was clear.

_Why can you not give a damn… about __**me**_?

I did not know what I was hoping for Erik to say. Perhaps a rejection or maybe measure of kindness to a girl I had hated only minutes ago. Yet even as I watched him cock his head, assessing her, I knew what he would do, and I winced as he made the killing blow.

"You speak as if I should care about this. I fail to see how this is in any way my problem."

Aishe's eyes widened.

"You owe me!" she said, incredulous as if she could not believe he did not realize it himself.

"If I ever did-and rest assured, child, that is certainly debatable- any debt has long since been repaid."

There was a steely edge in his voice I had not heard in a long time. And while there was very little he gave away-still less I knew with all the time that had gone by- I knew that tell-tale twitch of his fingers, seeking to grasp something- a lasso, perhaps?- as his temper slowly rose.

"You think yourself _immune_?" she mocked, reckless youth demanding one last hopeless stand. "Once he's gone your alliances will diminish, and I will do nothing to help!"

"I need assistance?" he returned the scorn.

"I can make them turn against you!"

"Try it," his voice thickened.

"If I go to the authorities, I'll tell them everything. You'll be caged like the freak you are and your little wifey will be tossed out the back of a caravan to **die** in the streets!"

Erik took a single step towards the girl, one arms rose to the level of Aishe's perfectly shaped throat. Just as fast, she stepped back, reaching a hand up one of her sleeves in a smooth motion, and withdrew a small, sinister looking dagger.

Before I could consider my actions, my arm shot out and grabbed Erik's extended hand.

And the whole world felt as if it had stopped spinning. Erik froze in his tracks, and gave me a look I could only describe as startled. I imagined I returned it.

Slowly, I took my hand away. I could count the times I had willingly touched him on less than one hand, and the memory of the first left a faint tingle on my lips.

When I spoke, it was to Aishe, my voice oddly calm. "Umm… I'll go with you, Aishe, and see if there's anything I can do."

Aishe snorted. I didn't think I would be much help either. Something moved, though, behind her eyes and she nodded furiously to herself.

She moved between us, back straight, her head tilted up towards the masked man. One fist clenched tight and hung limp at her side, the other held the dagger up to his face, over the lines of pink scar twisting from under his chin to the secret place behind the mask.

"You might not care, but _she_ will."

She turned and pushed me ahead of her to leave. Before we rounded the corner, I looked back.

He stood where I left him, still, like he was part of the silence and shadow, a nearly formless shape in the dark with only mask and hands visible. One hand fluttered by his side near the space where I had stood beside him.

Aishe said very little as I followed her through the narrow alleyways. I did not know the name of the town, but it had the usual make-up of any French walled city: ancient and quaint, with barely enough room for a body to move. I kept glancing behind me, and bumping into walls as I did. I wasn't too keen to speak to her after Aishe's threat of letting me die in the streets, yet I found my heart going out to the poor girl, clearly miserable despite her stiff upper lip.

Even in our most useless quarrels, Raoul had cared enough about me to argue back. Erik barely participated in the conversation, and only enough to goad the poor girl. _Something _had tied him to this troupe of Gypsies when he could have disappeared and made a life a thousand safe miles away. As I'd watched her looked at him with such adoration in her eyes, I had thought it must have been her… until he had crushed her as if such reverence were a mere inconvenience.

Any tie between us- faux marriage notwithstanding- had been severed long ago. That Erik could share such a heated moment with me, then bring the girl who clearly loved him nearly to tears, spoke of either a perpetual blindness on my part, or an ice that had consumed Erik to the core.

I was contemplating which was worse, when we rounded another corner, and the cramped alleyways and side streets opened slightly into the village square.

"Are you crazy?!" I whispered. "Why on earth would you bring us back here?"

The apothecary's shop was closed across the square, but the upstairs living quarters glowed with sedated life.

"Can't be helped," Aishe replied and stopped so suddenly I bumped into her.

"Ow!" I rubbed my nose, "Why did you-"

She wasn't listening, and when I realized what she was looking at, quickly forgot about my nose.

We had stopped in front of a small inn called 'The Stag and Hunter'. It was quiet, though several people stood in front of the premises, and even more in the square. We didn't move into the crowd, and when I tried for a better view, Aishe stopped me.

"Don't be a fool," she said, deathly calm. "We're safer here."

She was right, of course. Though most around me were watching with the usual interest people do at a public spectacle, there were plenty of suspicious and plainly hostile faces both here and elsewhere around the square. Staying anonymous was probably the best idea.

Because if there had been a fight, it was over, but only for the moment.

From my vantage point, I could see Brishen's father sporting the beginnings of a black eye. The rest of the men I had come with were disheveled, sweating, and fuming with barely suppressed violence. Brishen was backed against the well in the center, arms crossed, looking angrily at the ground. His normally friendly features were considerably harsher, due to a newly crooked nose, dripping blood.

His father was shouting something in Romany over and over again, until I was able to translate it roughly as "_Who_ _is she?! Who is the filthy Gadjí_?!"

Brishen kept his head down. I shifted my weight awkwardly and somewhat lost my balance and connected with a man near me. He yelped in surprise and shoved me violently off him. I rubbed my shoulder as I stared uncomprehending and he stared back with such hatred, I felt myself shrinking under it. In fact, nearly all the Gadjís were watching every single Gypsy with enmity, myself and the men included.

I had to look away for a moment, my gaze traveling over the front of 'The Stag and Hunter'. The inn had few windows, save on the upper levels, and those were filled with several people staring. One face, on the second story, looked as though taking a particular interest in the proceedings, pressed so hard against the glass she looked pig-like, with her red hair plastered against the glass.

When my gaze returned to the scene, Brishen was looking at me. His eyes were narrowed as if I were somehow responsible for his problems. At my own bewildered gaze, his softened, apparently finding an answer in my ignorance.

He'd done that once before, weeks ago, in a village called Huelgoat when I'd found him limbs entangled in a heated lover's embrace with a Gadjí girl, just like me. I felt Aishe's hand tentative on my shoulder as I began to understand.

"Will they…. They _couldn't_, could they?"

The old man's hands, twisted and black from a lifetime of metal work, trembled as he grabbed hold of his son's shirt and shook him, shouting with fervent rage and tears streaming down the sides of his wrinkled face. He had lost a daughter and grandchild just weeks ago. Now he was losing a son. Not through death, but through betrayal of his people; consorting with a Gadjí.

Aishe's fingers squeezed my shoulder. Her face was soft and serene, her thoughts turned inward. There were exceptions to nearly all rules; I and perhaps Erik were proof of that. But they were rare, and certainly not for Aishe's mother or herself.

"They can," she said softly, "and they will."

With a final thrust, Brishen's father sent his son backward, falling over himself and landing soundly in the mud. He did not fight it, nor did he get up when his father and his people turned their backs on him and walked away.

I made a move to go to him, but Aishe stopped me.

"Don't. We were too late and we have to go. The villagers are getting restless."

'Restless' was being generous. Aside from the man who had shoved me, now that the spectacle was over, I was getting outright hateful looks from nearly everyone we passed. Many of them, just hours ago, gazed at me in wonder as I sang.

So what had changed? I was so absorbed in watching the villagers watching me, that I didn't see my answer until Aishe reprimanded me for treading on her heels for the dozenth time.

She rolled her eyes at my apology, then made off in the direction of the men, dodging people, animals, and rubbish with an easy grace, her body nearly a colorful blur with her long mass of dark hair tumbling down her back. Though half-blooded, still a Gypsy through and through.

I let her gain some distance and stopped to peer into a barrel catching the rain off the side of a butcher shop. A Gypsy face stared back at me from the still water: paler and less reserved then most, but undeniably not the woman I had always been accustomed to seeing in my vanity mirror. My tanned face, my hair wildly free under an exotically beautiful dilko, the clothes that allowed so much freedom from restraint; I looked as if I'd been on the road my whole life.

It did not matter that in the sunlight I was paler, uncoordinated, and usually at a complete loss as to what to do with myself: to all of them, I was a Gypsy too.

I felt someone watching me, and raised my head, expecting another villager waiting with a crass word or two. Instead I saw Aishe.

Her head was cocked, in a curious imitation of the mentor that had scorned her.

"You never knew his name before I told you, did you?" I asked.

Her jaw clenched and, for a moment, the self-possessed girl was gone and that petulant seventeen-year-old's eyes flared slightly, before she was, once again, herself.

"They're waiting for us," she said simply, and walked away.

* * *

Camp was subdued by the time Carmen and I returned. Aishe had ridden ahead on Brishen's horse to deliver the news to an unsuspecting troupe. Jofranko was nowhere to be seen and everyone was silent as families gathered to eat, perhaps in memory of a young man with a friendly countenance and lilting guitar.

I refused Jal's offers of dinner and headed to my own tent, content to forget Brishen, Gilles, and the rest of what had been a thoroughly awful day.

I found Erik beside the tent, and a pile of wood at his side, swinging an ax with perfect precision down upon an unfortunate log. Once the wood was split, he picked up another and gave it the same fate.

I rarely expected to see him, especially after that ugly scene with Aishe. He was fully clothed, save a button or two undone, and a perfect sheen of sweat shone at the base of his throat and the visible part of his clenched jaw.

Averroës was back, unsaddled and drinking from a bucket. Carmen, eager for drink herself, pawed restlessly until I released her and she trotted to join my horse.

I watched as Erik made his way down the pile, swinging more violently with each new log. The strokes needed to split the wood went from ten, down to eight, then seven, until he reached three. Splinters flew in all directions, landed on the tent and in his hair, until finally, there was nothing left.

He stopped his work, and, turning to me, pulled out a handkerchief to wipe the grime from his hands.

He could split logs with the best of them, compose music, and make me seem to float on air. Force Gypsies to accept me as one of their own, and make a confident and independent young woman fall madly in love with a man she knew nothing about. Surely, there was little he couldn't do. Surely, he could have saved Brishen.

"No," he said calmly, reading my face as he shoved the handkerchief back into his pocket. "There was nothing I could have done. If he hadn't been so foolish and been seen with her, she might have eventually been welcomed in. As it is, it was too late before I knew."

A part of me probably knew that. Still, I knew what it was like to sleep cold and alone in the woods. It seemed impossible that _nothing_ could be done.

"What will become of him?" I asked softly.

Erik knelt over and began stacking the wood into a perfect pyramid. Each time he neared the top, one stubborn bit of wood rolled out of its place. After several attempts to secure it, Erik took the firewood and hurled it as far as he could. I heard it crash in the distance and both of us stared after it in silence.

"If he's lucky, he might get a job as a stable boy."

"And if he isn't?"

Many horses had gone with us to the village that morning, and few had returned. Brishen was as good a salesman as he was a horseman. If he had a fair chance, he would be fine.

It was the difference between the Gilles I had seen in Brest and the filthy, desperate man I had seen a few hours ago.

"You may think it's cruel to have to start over, but you yourself managed it."

"I had help." Jal, Dika, even Aishe had helped in their own way, fed me, gave me something while my sanity and broken heart mended somewhat.

"Is that all that's needed, Madame? A little help from a friend, or a stranger?" At this, he turned back to me. I could barely see him in the dark, but I could tell he was playing with something in his left hand. From the sound of it rolling between his fingers, it must have been metal. "Or is it innate? Something you're born with, that fights to be no matter what?"

He walked past me, nearly brushing my side, and continued out into the wide-open countryside.

"Go to bed, Madame," he called over his shoulder. "Whatever Brishen's fate, it's no longer your concern."

I stayed outside the tent long after he left, staring at the moonless sky, searching for sense in the darkness.

Survival. Was that all there was to life? Or was it something more? Those instants of utter bliss that sprang unbidden from the drudgery of everyday life, was that why anyone even bothered at all?

I kept those bright moments close to my heart, guarding it like a fortress for when I thought the world would rip it from my chest. And yet, it hadn't been any innate desire for more of those that had kept me going during those empty years after Gustave Daaé's death. Hadn't even been my love for Raoul that had gotten me out of that carriage, nor compelled me to run for my life.

So what was it then? And whatever it was, would it be enough to sustain Brishen?

The camp was still, people well into their dreams. I began walking unbidden toward a familiar caravan, my mind already made up before I even realized it.

Survival or no, I had found compassion when I needed it, and so too would Brishen.

I picked my way carefully through my adoptive family, until I found a girl sleeping alone in the corner. Gently, I nudged Aishe awake. She opened her eyes peacefully and nearly smiled up at me, as if she had been waiting just for me.

"Aishe, do you still have that money?"

* * *

"Are you sure?" I stared at the carvings, small and subtle at the base of the door. One, I thought, looked like a dancing horse.

After my encounters with Gadjís today, I couldn't imagine any _welcoming_ Gypsies, no matter what Aishe said about the markings.

"Positive," she replied, full of confidence.

It was a simple enough plan and that was what made me nervous. While Aishe danced, I was to sneak upstairs and search for the redhead girl and Brishen. I felt guilty about giving them Jal's money, but Aishe assured me she would not mind.

The money might keep them clothed and fed for a while, but until spring? I weighed the pouch in my hand and frowned. It had felt much heavier earlier that morning.

I let Aishe go first into 'The Stag and Hunter'. There were few enough people paying attention that I could have simply slipped on by. But Aishe, perhaps craving the attention, declared in the middle of the room she would dance, if someone would play.

Had it been me, I doubted anyone would have looked up. Aishe quickly had several men offering a tune on a fiddle, or on the old piano lying forgotten in the corner.

I snuck along the edge of the room, doing my best to be invisible and discreetly bumped into the owner as I passed. I backed away, hand hidden in my apron, apologizing for my mistake. Luckily, he was as entranced by Aishe as the rest of the men in the inn. I waited until I was up the stairs and out of sight before I reached again into my apron, and pulled out the master key.

I breathed a sigh of relief. Though it had been one of the first things I'd learned from my adoptive family, I had never tried to pick a pocket until that night. It was surprisingly easy.

It was quiet when I reached the top of the stairs, only one window at the end of the hall giving off little light from the moonless sky. I opened door after door until on my fourth try, I found the two I was looking for, curled up together on a bed.

I pushed aside the sharp stab of heartache I felt at remembering being held like that, and quickly crossed the room to shake Brishen awake.

"Brishen?" I whispered. "Brishen, wake up!"

The girl woke before he did. She took one look at me, and let out a scream I was sure woke half the inn. Brishen, though just as startled, clamped his hand over the girl's mouth and blinked several times.

"Wha…?" he said sleepily. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and regarded at me with a mixture of wariness and curiosity. Before he could say any more, I grabbed hold of his wrist and dumped the money in his palm.

"It's not much. Maybe not enough for the both of you, but if you were to perhaps try Avignon. I know several families there are desperate for men good with horses. Just say you worked for-" I stopped suddenly, amazed and frightened at how easily my true identity had almost slipped out.

Brishen stared at the money in bewilderment.

"Why are you doing this?"

I shrugged.

"You've been kind to me." That was enough, more than enough actually.

"Can't you go to her family?" I asked, pointing at the redhead.

Brishen scratched his head. "Um… no."

I was about to ask why, when the young woman stood. No, the family probably would never take her back if she had waited so long into a pregnancy to find the father. Most of the pregnancies I had encountered had been well hidden, or at least attempted to be, under tight corsets and full skirts. It was something of a shock to see a pregnant belly could be _that_ big!

"You can go to Paris," a voice said behind us, and we all jumped. Aishe stood in the doorway, eyes bright and face flushed.

"I only have a few moments. I told them I'd come right back." She smoothed her skirt and took in both her tribesman and the young girl who had stolen him away. "You'll have a better chance in a big city. Find a man named 'Bernard Coté'; he can help find you something.

"He's my father," she said, rather tersely, acknowledging our puzzled expressions. "Don't stay with him long, or he'll… just until you can find something better. Tell him I sent you."

I stared at her curiously, but I didn't have time to ask. The crowd below was growing louder, restless for their entertainment.

Aishe captured Brishen in a fierce hug and whispered something to him.

"I'll miss you too, _paash_," he smiled, and, with a final squeeze, let her go.

She turned to me. "Wait for me at the top of the stairs."

I nodded and she was gone in a whirl of skirts.

It was late, and I was tired. Brishen and the girl were nodding where they stood, and after all that had happened today, they deserved one night's rest before the reality of a new day.

"Goodbye, Brishen," I said taking his hand. "Good luck."

"You too, Christine," he gave me one of this friendly smiles as he shook his head. "Though I don't know how you can with that… that…" he paused, shaking his head probably at the thought of my erstwhile _Mulani_. "Thank you."

I could tell he meant it.

"Goodbye." I gave his hand one last squeeze, and left them to sleep.

I found a spot overlooking the tavern out of sight, and leaned my weight against the railing to watch the scene below until Aishe was done..

The man at the piano had given up on dizzying jigs for the time, and played what must have been a love song. My body moved lazily in time with the simple tune, and my mind fought an ever more futile battle against exhaustion. I leaned more heavily on my elbows, and imagined myself dancing, swaying slowly, as my eyes fluttered against sleep.

I knew how Aishe felt down there, drunk on the admiration of dozens of eyes watching her with such admiring intensity. But it was nothing compared to the fire that came of one person venerating you as if you were a goddess, a welcoming heat searing you inside and out. And if they were bold enough to touch you? A light skim, perhaps at the elbow, then up past the shoulder only to rest intimately on the neck… and if I was brave enough to welcome it? To lean into the touch as if it should have been there from the beginning? Would the feeling consume me, too?

The hand on my neck was joined by another, and, suddenly, I was turned and a mouth clamped violently onto mine, my waking dream suddenly shattered.

I was now completely awake. I opened my eyes but whoever it was was too close and the staircase landing too dark. Closed eyes blurred into view before my own as I tried to wrestle myself free, but my assailant wasn't having it. Only when he willed it did he let me go, and only enough to let us both breathe.

Gilles smiled cruelly through his ragged expanse of beard, the sour taste of him lingering on my mouth.

"You left before we could finish, Christine, and there is still _so much _to talk about." He leaned back a bit more to reveal a knife, glittering like starlight in the darkness. He pressed it into my bodice, and I heard several fastenings pop.

I wrenched myself backward, nearly toppling over the railing, and Gilles was on me in a heartbeat. He swung me back from my death and slammed me into a wall, the painful sound of it drowned out by a riotous new jig below. The air rushed out of me as I saw stars and when I finally came to, Gilles had the knife pressed against the insistent pulsing of my jugular vein,

Calmly, he gestured behind him toward an open door with his free hand, a hint of a smile in his voice when he spoke. "If you'd please…"

He forced me inside, silently, the knife persistent at the base of my spine and the last strains of the music cut off abruptly as Gilles Robillard shut the door behind him.

* * *

_**A/N**: An update in less than six months?! *dances* Huge thanks go to thank RJ and N for really helping me out with this chapter._

_Please review!_


	30. Not Stone or Flame

_**A/N: **Warning: violence ahead._

* * *

**Chapter #29**

**Not Stone or Flame**

I stood several minutes in the middle of Gilles' room, staring out the window. I heard him shuffling behind me: clumsy, awkward movements that I might have commented on, had I not been trying to hide in plain sight. I did not turn, but kept my back straight and my eyes staring out at nothing, far into the distance.

I stiffened when a hand pressed familiarly into the small of my back, cold and cruel as a knife.

I felt him lean forward and whisper, "Not the best accommodations, but it was all I could afford under the circumstances. I know you're used to better-" he stopped himself and when he spoke again, a grin blackened his voice, "Perhaps not anymore."

I walked forward until I reached the window; the only view it gave was of the back alley. No light, no people, only rubbish. I placed first my hand on the cool, clear surface, then my forehead, and heaved a deep sigh.

"I asked you earlier if you would kill me, and I thought not. Now I'm not so sure, so I'll ask again: Are you going to kill me?"

"You really thing I would, don't you?" He sounded as if the thought had never occurred to him. It gave me no comfort. "Why is it that you always think the worst of me, Comtess?"

If I did not turn, I could imagine the same man I had met almost a year ago: dignified and cultured with a voice as finely tailored as his clothes and only a touch of ice in his handsome gaze. But turn I did and saw nothing but a ragged man, fit to wander the streets with the rest of the destitute.

His clothes were many sizes too big and what I could see of his face was hallow, his eyes haunted. The list of grievances I intended to hurl at him died on my lips as a pang of pity blossomed in my heart. But I quashed it and forced myself to concentrate not on this man before me, but the one who had pulled the trigger three months ago.

"I don't think the worst of you, Gilles. You are what you are, and that disgusts me."

His eyebrows drew together and below us, in the tavern, the music picked up in a frantic jig.

"I have always been the gentlemen where you are concerned. I admit," he gestured towards myself, "my conduct has not always been… pure, but you have cause yourself to know how life demands certain actions of a person. You are helpless but to respond as necessary."

He moved toward me and there was nowhere for me to go.

"Without action, then action is done unto oneself. Perhaps I could have let Céleste humiliate me in front of all my guests, and perhaps you could have stayed inside and minded your own business, but I didn't, you wouldn't, and now we are here. There's no use driving ourselves insane over what might have been."

I took one step back and found myself falling backwards upon the bed. My skirts flew out on every side exposing a wide expanse of my thigh. I rushed to cover myself. As I did, I felt the left sleeve of my shirt slip. I was less concerned with that than I was with my legs, until, when I had made myself decent, I realized Gilles was standing much closer than before, gazing thoughtfully at my damaged shoulder.

He batted my hand away when I raised it to cover myself, and forced it to my side, examining the exposed skin. Perhaps he hadn't expected it, or he had forgotten about it completely, but he stared at it as if he had never seen such a scar before.

"So this is why, is it?" he said finally, quietly, as if to himself. He sighed. "Maybe some animosity is warranted, then."

He released me and scrubbed a hand over his face, the fingers catching in a snarl in his beard. The music had died and the whole inn was silent once again.

"This is not a good time for you to be here," he said. "I'm quite busy, and your presence doesn't help things. Still, why waste such an opportunity?"

He took hold of my wrist. When I tried to struggle free, he grabbed my throat, fingers pressed to make stars dance before my eyes. He forced me down, the old bed groaning loudly in protest at the new weight. He stretched his body over mine and my legs instinctively shut together. His fist was quickly replaced by his forearm, cutting off my air supply so that I stayed awake, but still at his mercy.

"I could hurt you if I really wanted to, you know. I've done worse these last months, terrible things that would turn your stomach." As if to prove this, he pressed slightly against my throat until my vision darkened. "But I won't."

He loosened his hold on my neck and sweet, blessed air burned its way back into my body. His other hand came up and lightly brushed a strand of hair off my forehead. He hesitated, and then began to stroke my cheek tenderly. In my mind, I recoiled at his every touch, yet I kept my body still and let him do as he would.

"Please," I found myself whispering. "Please. Just let me go."

He stared at me for a long time, seeming to memorize the slope of my nose, the curve of my brow, the freckles that had sprung unbidden on my face in the last few months. Staring at it all like a work of art, but never seeing the person behind it, never seeing _me_.

"No," he said finally. "Not yet."

When his forearm was pressed once again to my neck, this time, I did black out. When I came to, my wrists were tied to the bedpost and I was alone.

I lay there in a grim numbness for a time, wondering what on earth to do. I took quick inventory of myself to find other than a chafing in my wrists, and a slightly bruised throat, no other harm had come to me.

I tugged at the bonds, though the effort was useless. He did not seem capable of feeding himself, but somehow he knew how to tie a proper knot. At least he had the courtesy to tie my wrists together, on one side and spare me some modesty.

He had been a gentleman once, -perhaps he still was beneath all that filth. Though what did it matter now? I was at this man's mercy and no amount of social decorum would hinder him if he so set his mind on harming me.

Even so, it was the only explanation I dared to entertain as to why I was still alive. Not only where Gilles was concerned: it was the only reason I could think of why Erik would have bothered when I had turned up bleeding and half-mad on his figurative doorstep.

A sudden, unexpected wave of sorrow swept over me at the thought of my sham spouse. Whatever Gilles intended to do with me, gentleman or not, he did seem determined to keep me with him for now. Erik and I knew from the beginning our marriage was false, but it was to be ended amicably with full knowledge and consent from us both. What would he think tomorrow when I was nowhere to be found, or the next day, when inevitably he realized I was not to return and I had not bothered to say good-bye?

I sank deeper and deeper into my own thoughts that I hardly noticed the music had restarted once again, or the footsteps of some patrons as they made their way back to their rooms.

One set seemed to hang behind the rest, moving slowly and stopping occasionally. I would not have paid it any mind had I not heard a door open and then close and then another closer then the last. A drunk patron, no doubt searching for a familiar room to sleep off the alcohol.

I sat up as best I could. I fully intended that if they opened my door, I would beg for help. I waited as whoever was disappointed again and again, until finally, my door slowly opened.

There was a hesitation, but when a familiar, lovely face appeared from behind the door, I nearly wept for joy.

Aishe blinked several times as her eyes adjusted to the lack of light, then went blank with shock when she finally saw me. She stumbled to my side in an instant.

"What happened?" She said, breathless, and began tugging at my binds.

"We don't have any time. We have to get out of here before he comes back."

"Who?" she asked as she plucked at the rope.

I shook my head. I couldn't utter his name, nor describe him, without feeling I would somehow summon him back to me.

"A man came down a few moments ago for a drink. He had a full beard?" I nodded. She reached under her sleeve and extracted her knife, beautiful and gleaming as starlight. "Then we have to hurry. The owner said he'd close down soon."

Aishe attacked the rope with renewed vigor and mentally, I planned our escape. I had every intention of extracting my own revenge on Gilles as well by telling Erik. What he did with the information, whether informing the authorities or other, was completely up to him.

But we were going nowhere fast. In fact, such a simple task as cutting rope seemed to be taking an exorbitant amount of time. Aishe's hands, usually deft and quick were struggling to hold onto a weapon that was an extension of her own body. She missed her mark several times, usually wounding me. I leaned into her as she paid me no mind and as my nose inhaled the distinct smell of spirits, my heart sank.

"Aishe" I nearly wept, " he'll be coming back soon."

"I know, I know," she muttered. There was a look of profound worry on her face that would have been touching at any other time.

"Listen to me," I commanded. Admirers, captivated by her dances, would have showered her with gifts, money, lascivious advances, and occasionally, a quick drink. I did not blame her for being in the state she was in. She had not expected this and neither had I. But it was useless to keep trying and god only knew what Gilles would do if he found her here. "You won't be able free me in time. You need to go find help."

"Who?" she said practically. Camp was a good hour's ride away, and as far as I knew, the two of us were the only Gypsies in the entire village.

"I don't know, but you can't stay here. He'll kill you if he finds you," I said with complete certainty.

She hesitated, and then, attacked the rope once again.

"It's no good," I pleaded. "You have to go."

"Just let me try, I've almost got it-"

A new, heavier collection of footsteps sounded outside in the hallway. A few sets scampered on by to their own rooms, one though, seemed to be coming straight for my door.

"Aishe!" I nearly shouted, trying to jerk my hands away from her as best I could. The door suddenly swung open, and Aishe dropped her knife and rolled under the bed like a cockroach.

Gilles blinked and tilted his head when he saw me, as if he had not been expecting to find me there. He moved about the room for a time, gathering his items, arranging some and dropping others to be forgotten on the ground. He came over to the bed, and stood over me for a moment, as if reassuring himself I was actually there, before grabbing a chair and dropping into it like a sack of potatoes.

I couldn't look away even if I wanted to. The ropes had no give, and had I moved, I would have rolled right on top of Aishe. I had no idea if she was sober enough to stay silent. His face was indistinguishable in the night light, but his eyes were clear and intent.

He sighed and leaned so far over I thought he might fall on me. Instead, he rested his forehead against my own, like a lost, lonely child.

"It's too … I don't know. Too much, maybe?" he asked. "My father dies and leaves my family in a mountain of debt. Raoul's brother dies and leaves him a bloody goldmine. I shun decorum, and marry an empty-headed fool. Raoul shuns decorum, and gets-"

He trailed off as his eyes traveled over the length of my body. He raised a hand and placed it on the side of my neck. I felt hatred burning through the tips of his fingers and into my skin.

"I've never seen such…" he paused, searching for his words, "loveliness. And I shot you point blank months ago and left you for dead. Then here you are," the hand slid up my neck to my cheek and rested there with exquisite tenderness, "my beautiful dream, singing like a lark for bored villagers, blooming. Whereas I-"

He let out a mad bark of laughter and was suddenly off me. He leaned back into his chair and scrubbed a frustrated hand over his whiskered face. He shook his head, rattling the demons throughout.

"I've had so much time to think about everything, you know? Sometimes I think I am being punished, sometimes I think I am doing what anyone would do to survive. But now I see clear. You and your Comte de Changy seem to have a talent for landing on your feet. I feel as if I've always been on my knees since I was born and I thought I stood tall."

The despair left him as quickly as it came only to be replaced with something that made me shrink. Something caught his eye out of my vision on the ground and he bent to retrieve it. I felt Aishe shift beneath me as Gilles stood over me once again and suddenly held her knife gleaming like starlight in his hand.

"You tried to escape didn't you?" He squeezed the knife in his own fist, until blood began to seep through his filthy fingers. "Well, if I can't be what I want, I might as well be the monster you think I am."

He pinned my body to the bed, stretching the length of himself over me. The frame groaned at this added burden and I heard a huff as his unsuspecting bulk settled over Aishe.

_So this is it?_ I thought miserably. Every meeting, every taunt from that first night I met him at the ball had lead up to this moment. I wondered if a part of me had always known this man would try to destroy me, or if I had been completely naïve all along.

He taunted me for several moments with it, the dagger looming over my face as if he meant to cut off my nose, an ear, or simply plunge it into my eye. Instead, he returned to his original damage, and improved on it.

The bullet had entered near the flesh of my upper breast, and traveled through my body before lodging itself near my shoulder. I never looked at it myself unless forced, but with Erik's help, it had healed so that only a length of raised, white flesh running from breast to shoulder remained to tell that anything had happened.

Gilles plunged the dagger near the original scar, and held it there while blood welled around the metal. A filthy hand clamped over my mouth to silence my screams. My blood was nearly colorless in the darkness, a black living thing that was too firm to be water too free-moving to be a solid.

Tears streamed down my face as he twisted the blade to his hearts delight, seeming to relish my pathetic gasping cries.

He spent several more long moments tending to the new wound, gauging my reaction to each fresh movement of the blade. Then, he flicked his wrist, bringing the dagger up under my skin raising it from within and then tearing through it like paper.

I remember little of what happened after, whether Gilles said anything to me or not. What I did remember was the blood oozing from my freshly wounded shoulder.

Gilles stretched himself out behind me, his hand roamed up and then down the length of my body, until it stopped completely, resting on the swell of my hip. There was nothing I could do, except endure it. He stopped for awhile, and for a moment I thought he might have fallen off to sleep, until he suddenly pulled me close, my arms still stretched across the bed, staring at the ceiling, held by a man I was finding new depths to hate by the minute.

With a few slurred murmurs of "no need to fear me," he was sound asleep, snoring to the rafters as soundly as any with a guilt free conscious would.

I lay there a long time, racked by my own sobs and the pain burning my shoulder, until the groan of floor paneling startled me and Aishe's dark head emerged from below the bed frame.

She turned slowly and silently, with a look of unimaginable horror on her face. Her eyes found my shoulder, blood oozing through my clothes and down my neck, and her hand darted out to touch it, when a snore from Gilles stopped her.

I was trembling, my whole body shook with rage, exhaustion, and a pain. I wanted desperately for someone to help me, yet I still knew Aishe could not stay.

Silently, I mouthed the word, "Go!"

At first I thought she didn't understand, then she shook her head as if she could not comprehend the thought.

"I can't leave you with him," she whispered, any trace of intoxication seemingly gone. "I can't go back without you… He'll- "

My lips trembled as I mouthed, "Get help."

She looked at the door, and then back to me, and over the expanse of the bed as if the answers were hidden in the covers.

"Maybe I can-" I cut her off as I shook my head.

"You have to go," I insisted. "He'll kill us both if he finds you."

She looked over the sleeping man, sizing him up. He wasn't much to look at, but eventually what she had heard underneath the bed outweighed what she saw.

"I'll get somebody… I'll get Erik. I'll be back soon, I promise."

We both knew she wouldn't. Even if she could sit a horse all the way to camp and back again quickly enough, the chances of finding Erik there waiting for anyone were nonexistent.

She was about to leave when she stopped herself, leaning over me she placed her hand on my shoulder with such affection as I'd never seen her show anyone.

"I'll get help," she vowed solemnly. "Just hold on."

She was gone before Gilles rolled over, and I lay awake, soaking in my own blood.


	31. Heaven, Blessed

**A/N: WARNING! Violence ahead.**

* * *

**Chapter #30**

**Heaven, Blessed**

I was glad there was no clock. The constant ticking would have driven me mad long ago. Light crawled from one side of the room to the other as the day passed and I watched it every inch of the way.

The bleeding had stopped before dawn. The chafing in my wrists took center stage in my mind until that too stopped bothering me and I went completely numb, save a single question, beating like the innards of a clock in my mind: When will he come back?

There was no doubt he would. He had promised, after all.

The following morning, I came back to consciousness in that fragmented, confused way one does after an exhausting day. A stream of daylight warmed my face, and the air around me was stale and foul. There was an ache in my shoulder and a hand was caressing my hip, my thigh, and my ribs.

For a moment, I thought myself in bed with my husband, safe. But when a sinister voice in my mind asked, "Which one?" any illusion of safety was gone.

Before I even opened my eyes, I knew I was being watched.

I felt him lean in so the words tickled my ear.

"Sleep well?"

Gilles stretched behind me, joints popping free after a cramped night's rest. He got out of bed and scrounged about for clothes he had divested himself of in the night.

I didn't want to look at him. I never wanted to lay eyes on him or give him a thought for the rest of my life, but I was still tied to the bed and no matter where I let my gaze wander, he was infecting a corner of it.

Once dressed, he found his shabby coat and, having put it on, turned to me.

"I'm afraid I must leave you for now." He picked up a bag and slung it over one shoulder. "Business calls me away. You needn't worry, though. I promise not to be gone long."

As soon as he closed the door, I let out a sigh of relief and regretted it immediately. The coppery stench of my blood was overwhelming. I felt weak, lightheaded, and so very scared.

Aishe's drunken attempts to free me the night before had not been completely in vain. If I turned my head to a near intolerable slant, I could see the rope was partially sawed through. If I had the strength, a good pull would set me free.

I knew I didn't have it. A few experimental tugs and one all-out attempt to snap the rope in two left me exhausted.

I rolled onto my back. My breath was so loud to my ears, it felt like I was shouting. Not a bad idea, I thought.

"Help!" I cried, the sound as thin as paper. "Hello! Can anyone hear me?"

No answer.

"Help! Please!" I implored. It was eerily quiet, as if Gilles has cleared the building so no one would find me. I could not accept that. Brishen and that Gadjí girl might be long gone, but there had to be someone beyond these walls. "Please, _help me_!"

When I'd spent all my breath, I swung my leg backwards and slammed my foot into the wall behind me.

The noise was deafening, and the wall shook as if it might collapse. I did it again and again until my heel was bloody, and then I kept doing it. The pain was distracting - it was_ feeling -_ and it meant I was still alive. Rage, pure, and boiling was rising in me like it never had before. I wanted to murder Gilles with my own hands. I wanted to die right there and never be remembered. I wanted to curl up into a ball and weep like a child. I couldn't do any of that. All I could do was slam my foot into the wall, and hope someone might hear me.

When my foot made contact again, I felt the wall give, and my heel lodged within. I tore it free and let it fall onto the bed.

Oh god, I sobbed, why wasn't Erik _here_?

It was foolish and completely unfair for me to hope he would come to my rescue, yet I resented him with each passing minute my blood dried on the sheets. The man had an extraordinary ability of knowing things no matter how you hid them. How could he not know I was here? How could he let Gilles…?

I looked up at my wrists bound to the bed and for a moment, they appeared so very far away from my body. It seemed that this was where I would be for the rest of my life, lashed to the bed, watching the room slowly disintegrate into oblivion with me in it. I felt so very small, like a speck of dust in a storm and there was nothing for me to do but ride it to the end.

The dark thought amused me. I turned my eyes to the perfect stream of light coming in through the window, and the dust dancing in the air.

And for a moment, my mind withdrew into its farthest recesses, to a place with music and pure sunshine. My father and mother opened their arms wide for me. Nothing could penetrate my happiness here.

But an illusion of joy is exhausting. My parents' loving arms retreated and a part of me wept as the music lapsed and the sound of patrons emerged, returning to their rooms after a long day.

I felt rather than heard him coming back. His heavy footsteps announced him and an answering chill crawling up the back of my neck.

There was tension and violent energy rolling off Gilles when he stepped through the door. Wherever he'd gone, whatever he'd done today, it had not gone well.

He removed his coat and tossed it on the ground. From the bag, he took out what looked like paper and notebooks and placed them on the table. Pulling up a chair, he sat down and began writing as if no one else was in the room.

Page after page he wrote, only to discard and start again. As he worked, he made frustrated noises to himself so that I almost let myself hope he had forgotten me. When at least an hour had gone by, he stacked his pages and with a grunt of approval, returned them to his bag.

Gilles stood up and finally looked at me. His gaze barely registered my state as he rubbed the side of his neck and asked, "Hungry?"

My stomach gave an answering groan. He smirked. "I'll be back shortly."

Before he left, he crossed the room and knelt over me. I shrank into the bed and shut my eyes. Nothing happened for an endless moment and it was only when I finally opened my eyes that I realized I was alone again.

There was something soft on my forearm. When I looked up, the rope was untied and lying limp across the bedpost.

Was he such a fool? My mind barely registered that I was free, when I made the mistake of sitting up too quickly. My head swam and I was once again lying down on the bed.

I now had the added sting of Gilles' arrogance to keep me company. I was too weak to escape the bed, let alone the inn, and he knew it.

Gilles found me in that spot, dazed and panting, when he returned with two plates of food.

He gave an exasperated sigh and set the plates on the table. Despite his own diminished frame, he picked me up as if I weighed nothing and deposited me very gently in one of the seats by the table, a plate of steaming pork waiting for me. My flesh crawled where he touched me and I would have tried to scrub it off, if not for the smell that made my stomach roll in agony. I could not remember the last time I had eaten. I glanced up at my host, consuming his meal as elegantly as if it were the first of five sumptuous courses.

He felt me watching him and, meeting my gaze, asked, "Aren't you hungry?"

I felt no need to answer, and I'd be damned if I was going to take anything from this man.

He shrugged. "I would suggest that you do. You'll need your strength. We have a long journey ahead of us."

"Journey?" I asked, my surprise overcoming my hatred of him. He waited till he had chewed and swallowed, then lifted a napkin and dabbed his mouth. When he was finished, he nodded.

"I can't go anywhere with you," I said. "I have people waiting for me." And hopefully coming for me.

He laughed, an oddly lovely sound. "Those filthy Gypsies? Come, come. I can't believe you've fallen so far you prefer the company of those thieving degenerates to myself."

"Anything, _anyone_, is better than you!"

"That stings, Comtess, it really does."

I did not need a clear head to hear the lie.

"Where are you taking me?"

"To see the world," The grandeur of his voice was matched only by his sweeping gesture. "Don't you wish to?"

I could not keep the sour edge from my tone. "I've seen enough."

He leaned back in his chair and regarded me levelly. "You think me cruel, don't you? No need to hide it - you plot my death with every glance you send my way. But I am not all that you think I am. In fact, with me, you'll have a chance."

"Chance? At what?"

"A semblance of our lives back." The absurdity of the situation left me momentarily speechless. "I could do without the parties, the empty-headed twits, but I can't tell you what I would give for a decent grooming every morning."

His face split into a sneer, and a look of bitterness flashed in his eyes.

"I shouldn't have to. Once I'm done with this," this time, he gestured at his papers, "I'll have money and my comforts. If I'm feeling generous, I might bring you along with me."

I had no doubt he would treated me as he had Céleste: less than a pet, a little more than a possession. A toy for him to play with as he wished.

I ignored the insinuation for the moment. "It can't be done. Even if Raoul's death is blamed on me, you can't expect to remain untainted."

Clavell had accused me of being Gilles' lover. If I still had any faith in justice, I had to hope Gilles' timely disappearance would send the bull-headed inspector on his tail too. That Gilles expected to go back to a life of leisure when his actions had banished any chance of Raoul doing the same was too much for me to think of now.

Gilles saw the struggle of my thoughts and smirked. He reached over to his notebook and tossed it next to my plate.

"Anything is possible with the right persuasive means."

The book was open to a simple list. Some of the names neatly penned on the left-hand side were acquaintances of Raoul's, others I knew of by reputation.

On the right side next to each name was written a small biography. The Comte de Forêt, who was a notorious ballet-rat enthusiast, had several bastard children, one of them rumored to be another grand lady's. Below him was Madame Anna Marie Antoinette Deveroux, whose father had shameful dealings with the commune several years ago, and now the daughter was apparently following her father's radical tendencies. Marie Auguste de Morneault, heir to a shipping fortune, was planning to enact a political career. That, however, might not happen if it was known he was a frequent guest at a place called "The Lavender House" and had an insatiable taste for young men. The list went on and on; notable families, noteworthy secrets.

When I looked up, Gilles Robillard could not have looked more pleased with himself had his face been covered in crème.

"You're going to blackmail them."

He shrugged. "Absolutely. And why not? People need to be shaken up once in a while."

"How can you expect to get back in with these people if you're threatening them with their secrets?"

"I'm not planning on rejoining society here, Comtess. Even if I was, you would be surprised how cleanly money can wipe away any blemish. I daresay I could be quite popular, if I did it right."

I could not argue with that . The system was made and broken by those with power. And the beginning and end of power was money. All he really needed was money and one person on whom to place the blame for the murders.

We lapsed into silence again as he finished his meal, mine cooling in front of me.

"Will you not eat?" he asked. "Money comes to me rarely these days and I would hate to have you collapse on the side of the road while we're travelling."

I stared blankly at my plate.

"Fine," he said, and leaned back in his seat. He said nothing for a time and I thought the matter over. The knife came down so suddenly I only realized what it was later, when he brought his hand back and it swayed, embedded in the wood from the force of the blow.

"EAT!" he roared.

If Aishe had been here, she would have told him to go to hell. I, though, was a weak and sniveling fool. I picked up a piece of pork and put it in my mouth. Overcooked and far too salty, it was the most delicious thing I had ever tasted. I swallowed and groaned in pleasure when it fell to my stomach. I felt rejuvenated as if I'd eaten the whole damn pig.

When I licked the last bits of fat on my plate, Gilles was only halfway through his, watching me with amusement as he sliced his bread.

"That's better. You harm yourself unnecessarily, Comtess. The pig never did anything to deserve your indifference, even if you think I did."

"Let me go," I whispered, so low I barely heard myself say it.

He paused as he was bringing the bread to his mouth.

"And go where? The police? Maybe that apothecary you were robbing? Oh yes, I saw that one. It was really clever of you and that girl, Christine."

"DON'T CALL ME THAT!" I shouted, surprising even myself. He mocked me every time he used my diminished title, but he had no right to call me what my husband had since we were children, what Erik had once called me in longing affection.

He stared at me for several seconds. Then his face turned frighteningly feral and, without a word, he overturned the table, sending plates flying about the room. He did nothing more, but only stared at me as the sound of a plate spinning slowly died and it was silent again.

I bent over and wrapped my arms around my middle.

"Why?" I asked in a whisper.

"You'll have to be more specific than that, _Comtess_." he sneered.

I looked up at him and realized daylight was fading. Night again soon and a very long one ahead of me.

"Why me?" There were so many other women at that party the night I met him. So many more beautiful, more adventurous, who would have willingly gone to his bed for any treatment at the slightest provocation.

"Why?" He ran a hand through his beard fastidiously, considering my question. "Why indeed."

He was silent a long time. A slightly injured look came over his face, as if some truth caused him real pain. But when he looked up to meet my tired gaze, the certainty of his heartlessness was all I saw.

"Because…" he began his speech with care. "I knew exactly who you were."

He leaned forward and rested on his knees, closing the gulf between us. I wanted the table again, as if a physical barrier might save me from him.

"Quite simply, my dear Comtess, I. Know. You." He emphasized each word with a vocal punch, blows landing hard on my ears.

"You know nothing about me."

"Oh, but I think I do."

I looked away. "I had never even heard of you until Raoul said you were to marry his sister."

"You don't give yourself enough credit, Comtess. The name of Christine Daaé is known throughout France and beyond. I wouldn't be surprised if your little love drama with that ugly freak and the boy is known by the bloody Queen of England."

No, I wouldn't be surprised either. It was why Raoul had whisked me away to Avignon. Why he and I never had a chance at a normal life. But Gilles never seemed like the type to try and rub himself against fame. Lord knew I had met more than a few; Gilles was far too discreet, far too proud. Yet still, how well did I know him?

As if sensing my thoughts, he dismissed them with a wave of his hand.

"I care nothing for gilded notoriety. My interest was only slightly piqued when Céleste turned adoring eyes my way and I learned more of her family. But, when I saw you that night in Avignon, I knew…"

When he did not say anything more, I asked, "Knew what?"

He smiled a wide grin of white teeth and it was so easy to see the handsome, clean nobleman behind the filth.

"That faraway look in your eyes, the way you seemed to set yourself apart from anything and everything, as if you would throw it away in a heartbeat and be lighter without the load. And the longing - oh, the _longing_, Comtess! It broke my heart to see it. It was never enough, was it?"

Something within me went very still.

He stood up, a movement that took me completely by surprise. I thought he meant to attack me. I tried to back away and fell out of my chair, knocked myself against the overturned table and landed in a sprawl on the ground. He left me there and began packing his papers and belongings into his bag.

Something bright caught my attention and I had to focus on it several seconds before I recognized the knife embedded in the overturned table. I scooted along the floor until I was right next to it, then waited until he turned before I grabbed the handle. With more will than I'd thought I had, I yanked it free. My hand fell and for a moment, it sat there in my open palm, red from my blood. I heard Gilles shuffling around and slid it beneath my skirts, next to my thigh.

When he had finished, he took his seat again and left me where I was.

"I can understand why you hate me. But I was just as trapped as you in that place." He turned his head and looked out the window. "It's enough to drive anyone mad. I know it did my father - poor man cracked and never recovered. Gambled away all of my inheritance to the point that I had to take the first empty-headed money bag that came my way. I would have flung it all away if I could have, but duty staid me. The weight of a name kept in chains. I had no chance to be my own man. I had to be what _they_ wanted me to be."

_They._ He said the word with such bitterness. "They" being Lady Simonette, the Comte de Forêt, Raoul, Céleste, perhaps even me. Did he hate because he thought they had trapped him in the idea of Gilles Robillard rather than who he really was?

"I think you know something of that. I told you once that your past was charming, didn't I? You rose from gutter-rat to diva." He knelt in front of me and I didn't object when one large hand cradled my face and rubbed away a tear on my cheek. "You touched something extraordinary and you did it all on your own. Yet they looked down their noses at you simply because you rose under your own force of will rather than having it handed to you at birth. You were just as trapped as I was by what they thought. And you tried so hard to please them, didn't you? And for what? What glory is there in self-denial, Comtess? What's wrong with simply being who you are and taking what you want?"

His words hovered so close to something dangerous and I didn't care. Deep down, there was a part of me locked and hidden and I had always feared it would break free. And yet I wanted to throw it open - damn the whole world - and finally stop hiding. Those shackles I'd carried for so long were heavy, and I was tired. I knew I couldn't just lay them aside; I needed to break them.

"I saw the way you held back from your husband when he was near and I knew how you pulled away in your mind, even if you let him embrace you." Just as suddenly as it began, the spell was broken. His hand was ice on my cheek, and dirt on my soul. He smiled. "No matter how good Raoul was to you, no matter how decent, it wasn't enough, was it?"

"Stop." I tried to struggle free of his grasp, but his hand was iron and forced me to look deep in his eyes.

"You accepted him and played the devoted wife, but no matter how you tried — "

"_Please!_"

" — no matter how tightly you closed your eyes, you could never convince yourself — "

"It's not true!"

" — that Raoul was enough for you. There was something else you craved, wasn't there, Christine? A part of you closed off forever from your dear husband, begging to be let go. Let _me_ help you, Christine. Let _me_ set you free. Let yourself out and see the world for the first time in your life. There's room to breathe out here."

I struck like a snake. I swung the knife and slashed Gilles Robillard's handsome face from jaw to forehead.

My heart sang at the sight of his blood rising beneath the skin and spilling down his face. To know that I could hurt him was the greatest high I had ever experienced and by god, I wanted to do it again so badly my hand trembled from the need to do it.

But more than that, I wanted to be free of this man forever. I grabbed his bag and made for the door like my life depended on it. When I threw it open and ran into the hallway, my injuries caught up with me and my knees buckled. I caught myself on the opposite wall before I fell and waited several seconds for the world to right itself.

Too long. Gilles, carried by his anger, tore out of the room and straight for me. I forced my feet one in front of the other and stumbled blindly toward the sound of people eating and talking in the distance.

He reached me at the stairs, at the landing above the inn where he'd caught me the night before. He spun me to face him. I took sickening delight in the blood welling from the wound I'd inflicted, but the effect was horrifying – he was like an animal out for more flesh.

"You think yourself clever, don't you? You can slash and cry all you want, _Comtess_, but no matter where you go, I _will_ find you. You can run to hell and I'll be there, breathing down your neck!"

And I knew he was right. Gilles would be good as his word. Even if I made it back to my troupe, every village, every fair, every time I turned, he would be there. He would give me, the troupe, and Erik away to the authorities in a heartbeat. He'd pile his own crimes on top of our own and walk away free. Then? Labor camps for my troupe, from the old welder to little Dika. And I had a horrifying premonition of Erik swinging at the end of the hangman's noose.

Never.

I tried to raise the knife to strike again, but he had my wrist in an iron grip and laughed at my efforts.

"Don't think you can discard me so easily, Comtess. You're mine until I'm done with you! Do you hear me? Mine!"

And then I finally understood Gilles Robillard. For so long I had thought him nothing but a cruel man who delighted in harming others. And while he was cruel, that wasn't the key to him.

He thought himself a giant among men who deserved every sumptuous meal, every fine suit, and every holiday by the sea because he was Gilles Robillard. Gilles Robillard now could barely find a way to feed himself. Gilles Robillard thought himself victimized and unfairly denied his rightful place, and would blackmail anyone with his knowledge, because the truth was sneaking up on him. The mirror could only lie for so long and he couldn't stand it.

I had succeeded by my own efforts, while his success had been handed to him. Never earned, never his own. There was nothing to him but those possessions and he had lost them . He was a failure of a man in every sense of the word.

I knew then there was no way out of this for us both. He would never let me go until I'd worn out my use, and I could not suffer him to live either.

"You're a disgusting, weak excuse for a man. It's a wonder you weren't drowned at birth," I spat directly in his face and my spit mingled with his blood.

He shook me until my teeth rattled and I felt my dilko break free of my hair and fall to the ground. "This excuse, Comtess, is the same one you kissed that night under the stars, or did you block out that memory - how you panted after me? Would you like another taste, Comtess? I promise not to be as gentle as I was last night."

My blood turned to ice at the threat, but my eyes blazed with anger. "You're pathetic! You couldn't make it four months on your own and now you're using your slimy methods because you're useless at everything else!" I saw my own death in his eyes. I saw my lifeless, bleeding body and knew he would relish every moment of its demise. "I would never bother with anything so uselessly pathetic as you! The filth on Raoul's boots was _ten_ times your worth! And that ugly freak wouldn't even bother with your shadow. You're nothing, do you hear me? Nothing!"

He leaned in until his breath burned my eyes. "Ask him yourself, Christine, and see how he finds my company."

Below us, the tavern was silent. I felt dozens of curious eyes bore into the back of my head as they watched our little drama play out. I could feel our weight tilt over the banister, and the unrelenting pull of gravity calling us both home.

Who was I to refuse?

He shook me again and it was a wonder I didn't bite my tongue. But when he finished, I gave him the same awful grin he had given me and for a moment, he looked afraid.

"You wanted me to let go, Gilles? Let's do it. Now. Together."

I shifted my weight back only slightly and sent us both over the edge.

_Holy Angel, in heaven blessed, my spirit longs with thee to rest…_

Such a beautiful phrase, I thought abjectly. I was oddly proud of myself for thinking of it. But why it was appropriate, I could not remember, nor could I say the words myself, because I was missing something.

Air, I realized. I wasn't breathing.

I opened my mouth to scream and nothing came. I felt my face burning and my lungs painfully empty, and wondered if I would be trapped in this moment forever. Suddenly, my lungs inflated and air returned to me in a violent rush. I coughed and heaved until my vision was red with blood and I lay gasping as my breath became easier.

There was something soft beneath me. I tried to push off it, but breathing took precedence for the moment and I succeeded only in moving my legs.

I sat up, clutched my head, and wondered why every inch of my body ached. My eyes came slowly back into focus and faces came into view.

I knew none of them. Or maybe I did. I couldn't remember. My head was pounding as every breath scraped against my lungs. I was swaying too, but not because of any state I was in. The surface beneath me was soft, unstable. I took another breath, planted both my hands firmly on the ground, and forced my eyes to focus beneath me.

Gilles was sleeping. He looked peaceful and unmarred by any past or present hate. I stared at him and wondered at how handsome he was, despite the dirt and beard. My hand felt compelled to trace the line of his jaw, his cheeks, his strong nose, and the oddly beautiful slash running over the length of his face. I slowly realized my earlier assessment that he was asleep was wrong, because his eyes, though open, stared blankly out at nothing. I traced a finger along his brows as if I might compel some light back into them. I couldn't and I pulled my hand back down his face, and across a neck cleanly broken.

With a whimper, I rolled off him and forced myself to my feet. I backed up until I ran into a table and, remembering I was not alone, looked up.

All were wide-eyed, some with hands stilled halfway to bring their drinks to their lips. No one said a word. I began to slowly back away toward the door and no one made a move to stop me. I remembered – they had seen everything that had happened. Perhaps they found compassion for my self-defense.

My blurred eyes swept the faces of everyone in the tavern. Most were too shocked to do anything but stare openmouthed. One young man had his finger raised at me, shaking it as some knowledge gradually worked its way through his mind. As I neared the door, though, he suddenly stood and pointed the accusatory finger at me.

"That's her! That's the gypsy bitch that robbed my father!" The apothecary's son, I remembered, was short a vial of ointment for a baby girl.

This snapped everyone out of their stupor and their looks of confusion and compassion quickly changed to suspicion and hate. I ran out the side door and into the night before any of it could turn to action.

It turned soon enough. I heard them behind me. First a few, then a growing crowd of men hot on my heels. I didn't have the head to throw them off, so I made a straight line for the village walls as fast as I could, overturning carts, knocking over people as I ran toward the Gypsy camp, towards safety.

My heart pounded with one certainty as I ran. My troupe would protect me. If I could get there, I'd be safe. I was a Gypsy too! I had a family! And I had a husband who not only could kill grown men in a seconds, he would enjoy it!

My terror gave me wings. But outside the walls of the city, the wind blew so violently I was nearly knocked over several times. The sun had already sunk in the west, and the last flickers of daylight were swiftly dying. I thought I was on my way back to the camp, but I could have easily been going the wrong way.

It did not matter. I heard dogs barking behind me and I pushed my feet to running long after I thought them flayed. It was still damp from the rain and I could barely see beyond my nose, I slipped and stumbled so many times, but my heart lightened when I recognized the landscape and realized I was heading in the right direction.

The camp was just over the hill. I felt myself gag as I pushed beyond exhaustion to run. It didn't matter. Nothing did except that I would be with my people soon and I could rest easy then. _Only a little farther…_

I crested the hill and collapsed in a muddy puddle as the sky opened again and drenched the earth. I gagged and threw up as my poor abused lungs tried again and again to give me air. But it was all right now. I made it back. I raised my eyes in joy and laughed at the men far behind, who dared to try and capture me.

But joy earned is swiftly spent, and mine took flight like frightened birds. I saw not a single caravan or tent in the darkness, though I strained my eyes to see them. I forced myself to my feet and stumbled in every direction, searching for something, anything that would give me back my hope.

On the south end of what had been the camp, the caravan tracks were not fresh. If my Gypsy teaching was sound, the troupe had packed and left sometime the night before, when Aishe had gone for help.

I stood in the middle of an open field, alone save the wind and rain.

They'd all left me.

He'd left me.

"Erik!" the word tore out of my throat like an open wound. "Erik, where are you?"

Nothing. No answer, only the constant fall of the rain all around me.

They were coming with dogs. Nasty, snarling things that never stopped barking. I used what little strength I had left to crawl into a hollowed out tree. It was poor shelter. The only good I could say about it was that I was less wet than I would be outside, though not by much. It didn't matter. I wanted the rain to clean me. I wanted it to wash everything away until I was nothing but a blank slate. No past. No present. No future.

Eventually, the sounds of the dogs died away. The weather was too dangerous to stay out and my hunters went home to their warm fires. Still I sat, growing colder by the moment and wondering over the irony of wanting fervently for death and yet never before feeling so painfully alive.

Or perhaps I _was_ dying and this was the prelude; cold, shivering, bloody. All I needed was a requiem. Weakly, I mouthed the words that had so recently become my mantra.

_Holy angel in heaven, blessed, my spirit longs with thee to rest…_

My mind grew numb and my heartbeat slowed with each repetition. I was ready. As though lured by my swansong, a pale, lifeless form, as unspectacular as myself, emerged in the distance. _Holy angel in heaven, blessed…_

Gradually the form became a man, though the ghostly face remained. And eventually, the form came to stand before me, leading two horses.

"Come," Erik commanded. "I know a place we can go."

And there was nothing else for me to do, but follow him into the night.

* * *

_**A/N: Yes, it's been a while. But please still review!**_


End file.
